Legend of the Lost
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: Severus Snape does not die immediately from the snake venom, but lingers on for several weeks after in a secret shack on the grounds of Hogwarts. Paralyzed and going blind from the venom, Harry begrudgingly becomes his sole care-taker. Can old wounds be healed before the end, or will generational hatreds linger on beyond the grave?
1. Prologue: Snake and Shadows

Prologue: Snake and Shadows

"You've been a good and faithful servant, Severus, but only I can live forever."

 _But of course,_ Snape thought. _Nothing new under the veil of night. There is always only one winner, in love and in war. Nothing new…_

But he could still make a feeble protest against the inevitable. It was dispassionate, but it was all he had left to offer. The years of spying had worn through even his desire for self-preservation, but instinct is an exceedingly difficult thing to quell.

"My Lord…"

Voldemort's hideous, melted face made no reaction as he flicked his wand, lancing Snape in the side of the neck. The incision stung and then froze him, like the poison of a spider's bite, and he sank to the ground. It had come…the end had come…at last…

Then he caught sight of it, the creature with the brilliant, eerie eyes, slithering towards him, thirsting for his blood. Even though he did not understand parseltongue, he could easily imagine the snake speaking to him, hissing to him, "You are losssst…lossst…lossst…"

Slowly it reared its head….and sprang forward.

Snap. Slam. Back breaking glass. Fangs sinking deep.

 _Lily…_

Strike. Again.

 _Lily, please…_

Strike, snap, slam.

 _Help me…it hurts…_

The memories…they were shattering like the glass in his mind, cutting through him, every seemingly insignificant drabble…oh, too many, too many…

 _He remembered, at age 9, how he had been beaten by his drunken father during one of his rages, and the way she had helped him wipe the blood off his lip, and taken him to her home, and filled his puny body with her mother's shepherd's pie…_

The snake coiled in front of him with fresh ferocity, its eyes piercing enough to still its victim's agonizing heart. It had his blood painting its scales.

 _He remembered his 11_ _th_ _birthday…and her cake…_

One final curling motion, preparing to spring…

 _It was chocolate…with raspberry filling…_

Spring. Snap. Hold.

 _He had gotten frosting on his face…oh, oh, such pain…but he remembered, he still remembered…how she had giggled, and wiped if off…and…he had thrown his arms…around her neck…said it was the best birthday…ever…_

Blood was frothing at his neck now, and the taste of venom in his mouth. How appropriate…a death-eater…eating death…

 _And then he saw her lifeless body…lying on the floor…and her beautiful, empty green eyes…_

"Deathhhh…deathhh…"

 _Li...Li…Lily…I'm…sss…sorry…so…so….sorry…_

He shut his eyes tight, hoping the burning would stop, refusing to let a cry come forth from his lips. He was Severus Snape, the Half-Blood Prince, proud, and stern, and beyond the point of…

"Lossst…losst…"

 _Am I so lost…that even you…you can't find me? Oh…no…._

The tears ran down his chalk white face, carrying the memories inside them, like the energies contained within crystals. He decided they should serve some purpose, something of use to leave behind as a token of his pain's intensity.

 _Magic, magic, always magic…it was so…overrated…the thin line between light and shadow…so terribly lonely to tread…_

Then he saw – young Potter. So much like his father, he was, in face and form and those cursed glasses, always cocked at an arrogant angle. But Snape was still sworn to protect him, sworn to be of some aid to him, even now. Yes, he would have to let him know – everything.

"Take them…take them!" he ordered breathlessly, struggling to keep it from sounding like a sob. He heard the boy speaking words to his two friends that his blurring mind could not keep up with, and felt a vial pressed against his face so the tears could be caught. They would have to tell the legend of the lost for him…

Then he felt a tingling surge rush through his body, setting a single burning need in sharp relief. He felt panic tightening his throat.

 _Help…help, what's happening to me? Lily…help me…look at me…_

Through the tears, Snape dared to look in the direction of the boy…the only remnant left of her in this world…

"Look…at me…" Damn! His words were too soft to be heard.

" _Look – at – me_ …" He tried again, now harder, harder pressed, the words bruising his proud soul. For he knew, he was pleading…pleading with this boy…to just…look…at him…for once…to see him…as he was…

Snape closed his eyes again, bitterly. Her boy would not…look at him…

Then he felt the young man's hand against his wounded neck. He winced. Would Potter try to make it worse than it already was by probing it, he wondered blearily?

Then he dared once more to open his eyes, and found himself looking through those horrid glasses and into the boy's eyes, deep emerald green like the leaves of the tree he and Lily used to lay under discussing magic on lazy summer afternoons. They looked so much like hers in the torch-light, not filled with hate, as he thought they might be, but with confusion, and a twinge of compassion. And he realized the boy's hand was not meant to hurt, but to try vainly, instinctively, to help.

Snape swallowed the poisoned lump welling up in his throat, robbing his breath, and blinked back another trickle of saltwater.

 _Oh…words, words, must have…words…so much to say…no time…oh, so little time…_

"You have…your mother's eyes…"

He could not help that his final breath was released like a groan of grieving, nor that he found Harry Potter's gaze the only comfort to cling to as Lady Death seemed to wrap her cloak around him and pull him into the silent shrieking of the mournful night...


	2. Chapter 1: Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 1: Smoke and Mirrors

 _Smoke rising, fog rising, breath rising. No, no…not again…not waking up to yet another round of sport…no, no, just let it all melt away with the pain…_

Snape felt the grip of pain, and his consciousness washing over him like cold water or snow-stained wind. He breathed through his teeth and felt them freeze, tingling down through his gums. He tried to pull his cloak around him further, but his right hand made no motion. No…his entire right side was numb and motionless, like ice. He tried to crane up his neck, and the shooting pain made him fall back with a groan.

He was lying on a cot somewhere, and there was a candle blazing nearby…he could make out the light, but it took a long while for it to coalesce into any definite vision. _What was wrong with his eyes? Oh, what was happening…?_

"Snape."

He snapped his gaze across the room and made out a caped figure standing there. His vision was blurry, but he knew who it was without a doubt. "Potter." He bit down on his lip. "What…what have you done…?"

"Killed Voldemort," he stated, and then added with a resentful edge in his voice, "Your old lord and master, it seems."

He propped himself up as best he could with one good arm. "How…?"

"I know what you're thinking; that I should be dead. Well, for the record, the dark lord did take another shot at achieving that result, but he destroyed only the Horcrux inside me. When I woke up, I went into the battle, and the Elder Wand answered to me alone. So it seems the dark lord need not have set his snake on you at all…though I suppose it did deserve a decent last meal before it lost its head."

Snape ignored the cutting remark; he was too consumed with the news of Voldemort's demise. After all this time…the prophecy was fulfilled. The one who could not be named had been undone, shredded like paper, and the reason for Snape's continued existence consummated. His heart thudded heavy, like lead, sinking like a stone in the sea.

He turned as best he could towards his former student. "What am I doing here? What did you…?"

"You had a potion in your possession, one which you must have been working on for quite some time to deal with just such an unfortunate incident. Evidently your method to put a stopper – even a temporary one – in death?"

Snape instantly knew what he was referring to, and shuddered. "You would torture me by prolonging my life for a mere couple of weeks in agony…to what end?"

"To ask you questions which need answering," he responded with an increasing edge in his voice. "No one else knows you're alive, so they won't be searching the grounds for you, even if most of them would be baying for your blood. This shack leaves you fully at my mercy. And if you prove uncooperative…perhaps this will give me the chance to see the level of courage you actually have."

"So you couldn't have the courtesy of letting me die, you had to revive for the satisfaction of your warped little mind?"

Harry clenched his fists. "I want answers, Snape!"

"Oh, still with your father's chip on your shoulder…"

"Shut your mouth, death-eater! It was your own damned fault they died! I hope you die, I hope you die slowly and in pain!" Harry felt the sheer level of rage cause tears to prickle in his eyes. He waited for his professor's response to his explosion, but only saw the pain he had cursed him with swimming in the man's own dark eyes. "What made you do it, Snape?" Harry demanded, but his voice was breaking now. "You turned to the dark arts, even though you knew it would break my mother's heart. If you really loved her, how could you do it when you knew you would lose her over it?"

"You know, Potter," he whispered lowly, almost like the growl of an injured animal. "Do not play innocent with me. You know the pull of the undercurrent well enough. It plays upon both strengths and weaknesses with utmost subtlety. Do you think I have not seen it playing on you down through the years? I more than others am familiar with the symptoms. Do not think yourself immune. You have shared a part of the dark lord's soul for far too long."

"Dumbledore taught me that a person is made not of attributes, but of choices…"

"Dumbledore?!" Snape spat, and there was pure hatred in his eyes, boring through his usual slicked-back sarcasm. "You were nothing but a pawn in his game, a pig for slaughter, like your parents! And I…I _begged him_ …" He forced himself to calm down, feeling his blood boiling at the thought of Dumbledore luring him into a life as a double spy in Lily's name. Now he felt sure that physical imprisonment and torture would have been the kinder option.

"It wasn't his fault my parents were betrayed," Harry defended. "As he said, they put their faith in _the wrong people_ …" The emphasis contained an obvious strain of condemnation.

"He demanded an exchange to save them!" Snape blurted. "He… _dared_ demand an exchange for their lives. So you think I am evil? But tell me, what decent man would do _that_? My soul was twice sold…once to the dark lord, with his brand, and a second time to Dumbledore for his tender mercies."

"He spared your life, and that's far better than you deserved!" Harry shot back. "By all rights, you should have spent the end of your days rotting in Azkaban with the dementors for your only company."

"Do you take me for a mouse, Potter?" he sneered. "Azkaban…I would have preferred that to yet another lord over me, using me for his ends under the guise of letting me… _redeem_ myself. Redemption be damned, if at that price!" He shook his head. "But no…he never truly thought…redemption would be mine. It made it easier to have me be the one to end his life. The Malfoy boy was salvageable, but a marked death-eater, no…I was an expedient means to an end…like you were, Chosen One. He played us both false for the sake of his precious cause, to be a hero at the expense of those who got in his way. It was all a great game of wizard's chess, of smoke and mirrors, and the constant taste of swallowing back death."

"I'm sorry, Snape, but I can feel no pity for you…I can't…not after all you've done to me and my family," Harry choked.

"I never…asked for pity…did I?"

The young wizard turned towards the door, preparing to leave.

"Potter, you've gotten what you want now," he panted, the suffering swelling his tongue. "Finish it…use…use the wand…"

"What, you want me to follow your example?"

"It was according to Dumbledore's choice and plan that I should administer the final blow. I assure you…I showed him far more mercy…than you are showing now."

"Did I ever say I was merciful?"

Snape smirked, a cynical and raw expression. "You see, Potter? We all have our undercurrent…do we not?" A spasm of pain ran down his spine, and he writhed against the cot for a moment before regaining control of himself.

For several moments more, he sensed the boy studying him. Then the candle went out and he heard him walk away, and the door shut behind him. Snape shivered. The pain of cold could be crueler than the pain of any heat…that was the truest nature of an inner Hell…

 _How long…would it take…for the end to come?_ A week, or two, he had said…but uncared for…hopefully it would be a much shorter duration…but even a single night in this state would feel like an eternity…he could not even move to shift out of the painful position he was in…it hurt to breathe…

 _Lily…_

No, no more of that. No more calling on her to get through. There would be no mercy from her, nor from her son. Snape had gone past the point of that, obviously. He would have to be lord of his own pain, his own cold little world.

 _But her name…just her name…in the silence…he could not…let it go…no, no, he held it tight against his heart, like a cloth…and let it sop up some of the blood…_


	3. Chapter 2: Cradling the Dead

Chapter 2: Cradling the Dead

Snape was shivering. For hours, he had been shivering. He hated it. It made him look weak. Not that anyone was watching him, not in this place. But he knew it was so, and it twisted him up inside. He thought of trying to cast a spell to stop himself, but somehow…he knew he could not. His magic…his magic was gone, dried up like seaweed on the shore, ebbed out like the waves from the sand, leaving nothing behind but a heavy sogginess, motionless and deathly white.

He felt the creeping cunning of death, the thing his old master the Dark Lord had feared so innately, and yet he felt beyond the point of fighting or fearing it. His body was in agony, but his emotions were numb. Resignation reigned, and a knowing that the dark was his to own. He had chosen it long ago, and he would forever be one with that choice which could not be undone, that nightmare which could not be cast off.

Another stabbing pain thrust its way down his neck, and he struggled against a groan, clutching the side of the cot with his one good arm. It stuck in his throat, raw with thirst, hardly able to swallow. He felt it melting away inside himself, and he saw the melted face of a dead man in his mind, and it ate away at whatever was left of him. He wanted to let go, to let go to death, but he felt himself suspended by it, taunting him at the edge of the chasm. That was the terror; he might let go, and never fall. There was no landing, nowhere to find the ultimate finality…

Then he heard a creaking as the old door opened slowly, and the morning light stung his eyes. Foot falls, hesitant, moved towards him. Again, he knew who this "visitor" was even before his sight adjusted.

"Get away, Potter," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Have you not seen enough of death?"

Harry just stared at him for a long moment, absorbing his pathetic condition, and measuring the strength of his lingering pride. "I have something to help," he stated quietly, pulling an object from his coat. It was a vial containing a shimmering blue substance.

"I…don't want…help…"

"Snape, it's your own potion! It will ease up the pain."

The professor stared back at the boy strangely, and then turned his face away. "Toying…always toying…I hate your bloody toying…" His teeth chattered together.

Harry exhaled. "I've always known you were a conceited, stubborn man, but I didn't think you were this much of an idiot!"

"Why you smug little weasel…" Snape instinctively tried to pull himself up with his good arm, but fell back hard. He gasped, feeling something akin to an electric shock run up and down his spine. He found himself blearily meeting Harry's gaze, but the pain was too acute to move or say anything more.

He saw Potter move closer to him and felt him press the vial to his lips. The potions master tried to turn away, but his neck locked.

"Snape." Harry's voice was hoarse. "Give in. We might hate each other, but she…she wouldn't want you to suffer like this."

Snape squeezed his eyes shut, trying to take in his words. He wondered to himself if there was any hint of truth in them. Then slowly, he allowed himself to drink down the potion. It sent a warming sensation through him. He felt overcome by a wave of exhaustion, but also felt unable to tear his eyes away from Harry's.

The boy's hand was against his back, leaning him up so he could swallow. His touch burned him. He wanted to shrug him off. But he also found himself swallowing hard against some internal swelling, not as a result of his injuries, but from something far deeper, far more excruciating.

And then he fell unconscious, but his eyes remained open, staring blankly at Harry still, almost as if in death.

When Snape woke up, he felt reasonably better than he had before. Not only had the pain subsided considerably thanks to his potion (which he was more than a little proud of), but finally being able to sleep had cleared his mind. Furthermore, he discovered that a fire was now blazing in the small fireplace, and he had a blanket over him. As a result, he was no long shivering.

Suddenly the origin of all these things clicked in, and he turned to find Harry Potter sitting silently on a stool near the hearth, staring vacantly at the fire. He appeared lost in the depth of his thoughts, with the flames reflecting in his glasses.

Snape cleared his throat, and the boy snapped his gaze onto him. After a long spell of silent, suspicious study of one another, the professor rasped, "You were wrong, Potter. She…she wouldn't have cared. We were never reconciled…"

"You held her in your arms," Harry blurted. "She was dead already, but you…held her. Why would you do that?"

Snape tensed. "What would you have had me do? Leave her there on the floor?" He hated the way his voice, which he had worked so hard to control, fluttered like the wings of a dying bird.

"You held her like she was still there, somehow. I couldn't stop thinking of it…all night."

Snape forced himself to hold fast against that memory, of cradling her cold, lifeless body against his own, and how he had sobbed so long and hard he thought he might die there in the dark, wracked to the core of his being which no one had ever recognized but her.

He remembered her emerald eyes, sightlessly staring into nothingness, and the way her red hair fell loose against his heaving chest, and how he had kept repeating broken, futile apologies for his own cursed weaknesses that he knew she would never hear.

He remembered rubbing his hand in a soothing, circular motion against her shoulder, strangely comforted just to be able to touch her again without facing her disdain, and yet yearning with all the strength of his magic to give his darkened life for hers. For he knew that he, as much as Voldemort, had been the cause of that life being snuffed out…that his words as informant had struck her down, and she let herself be struck, to save the life of her child.

 _Her child_ … _in front of him now…_

"She was still…there." He closed his eyes again.

Harry swallowed hard. "They say a patronus shows the strongest thoughts a person has, or even…the deepest part of a person's soul, the one thing he is, shot through and through, when everything else is gone."

" _Yesss_." Snape emphasized the last consonant, as he always did, meaning to sound sarcastic at his former student's recitation. But it didn't; it sounded strangled, like a dam blocking up a flood of tears.

"The doe that led me through the forest…it was the same as hers, wasn't it?" Harry sucked in his lips. "But you…you were the one who cast it."

Snape did not answer; there was no need to.

Harry stood up and wandered back towards the fire, his hand over his eyes. "Do you think…she was in very much pain…when she died?"

"No, no," Snape muttered, feeling his pride punctured at the desperate ache in the young man's voice. "It was sudden, and swift. And her thoughts…were surely focused on your protection. She had no time to dwell upon death when it came for her."

 _Damn it, was he trying to convince himself as much as the boy?_

"You would have helped Voldemort kill a baby," Harry whispered, almost to himself. "Whether it was Lily's child, or anyone else's, it would have been like killing her. Because she thought more of you once…for whatever reason."

Again, Snape refrained from responding. There was no use trying to refute it; he might have been proud enough to try some perverse owning of it as a badge of honor, like he had so many times before when playing the death-eater game, but he could not bring himself to assume such despicable airs now. Not with Lily's eyes piercing through him.

"She could see beauty in the ugliest of things," he said at last. "Or she made them beautiful…by looking at them…"

He inhaled shakily, trying to hold together with all his might, but he felt his eyes swimming with saltwater. "Do you know, Potter…what I would have done to that…damned sorting hat?" he queried, his voice falling in and out. "That thing…that put her in one house…and me in another, when we first came to this…damned place? I'd have torn it… _torn it_ …into so many pieces…"

He pressed his good hand against his face to hide the tears he felt spill down, and forced his breathing to even out. When he regained control, he managed to speak again. "You've done more than you had to do here. You are free to go." He said it in the same tone in which he used to dismiss him from detention late at night.

Harry leaned his head against his arm, resting on the fireplace. "I don't know…where to go from here."

 _Ah…so he was paying the price that comes with heroics, that of losing oneself for something greater than oneself…and when that greater thing is accomplished, finding merely a shadow of identity, drifting between worlds…_

"Well, I certainly can't tell you, boy," Snape disclaimed. "I can't even…answer that for myself…and the sand has almost run out on me."

"Then we're both lost," Harry realized.

"That's…a fair summation."

"But we both know that…we love her. And she loved us. And somehow…that's still very alive inside of us, even if we are lost."

Snape looked amazed at these words that cut him, cut out his heart. This son of hers was appealing to her as the common link between them…that being lost together, yet still bound through her, was better than stumbling on alone.

"So you suggest we share our purgatory till the sand runs out altogether?" he surmised.

Harry turned back towards the fire, without a verbal response. And as they both knew, there was no need for one. They understood each other better than either one would ever want to admit.


	4. Chapter 3: Tea and Sandwiches

Chapter 3: Tea and Sandwiches

When Harry returned to the shack the next day, there was a paper bag in his hand. Snape studied it suspiciously as the boy set it down on the end table and slid it towards him, almost as if it were some type of explosive he was afraid of setting off.

"You come up with new methods to be unsettling every day, Potter," Snape observed, his eyes fixated on the bag.

"Believe it or not, I'm trying to be helpful," Harry huffed.

"I may choose not to believe it," Snape decided.

"Would you just…open the bloody thing?"

"Are you testing my courage, or my judgment skills?"

"Fine!" Harry opened the bag himself and pulled out a sandwich and a thermos of tea. "Are you satisfied now?"

He studied the admittedly rather sloppy and ill-assembled sandwich intensely. "Satisfied that you're intent is probably slow poisoning."

"What the…you're already poisoned! How would that make any sense at all?"

"I made no comment on the heights of your rationality, which, I might add, have never been particularly up to par."

Harry's face grew red. "I shouldn't have bothered bringing you ANYTHING!"

"Did I ASK you to bring me anything?"

The younger wizard threw up his hands in frustration at the sheer obstinacy of his old teacher. He felt stupid for even trying to be decent to him. It was obviously going nowhere but down the dark, fathomless tunnel of this man's disturbed mind. "Why are we even doing this, Snape?" he queried at last. "Why am I even trying?"

"I don't…" the professor paused dramatically. "…know."

"I suppose that's the point, isn't it?" Harry spat. "Neither of us know much of anything right now; we're just going around and around in some warped circle…"

"I thought your diabolical scheme to slow the effects of the venom in my bloodstream was for the purpose of interrogation," Snape postulated. "Why not get on with it and abandon your philosophical gymnastics?"

"Alright," Harry snapped, spinning around. "But I won't ask you questions like a simpering student to an all-knowing teacher. No, not even to a poisoned-black double-spy. If you want to get petty, I'll get petty. Go ahead, tell me what you would have done with her if you had gotten her instead of my father when you were in school!"

"What…?"

"You complain about it, but what did you have to offer her that my father couldn't have outdone you on? What makes you think you could even have made her happy, or shown her a good time? I can't see you taking her out to any dances or parties or anything. All you care about is yourself, and what would have made your miserable life bearable."

Snape's onyx eyes were hard as stone, and Harry waited for the turmoil seething behind them to explode. But it didn't happen. Instead, he quietly assessed, "You know nothing, Potter."

And somehow Harry felt sufficiently rebuked by that. For he saw in those eyes some frightening level of depth, like the night's shroud or the morning's fog, and it could not be penetrated. His antagonistic inquiry seemed so shallow in comparison, launched out of revenge for a rejected sandwich, that he slumped down in his chair, dejected at having let himself go off like that. He had sounded like a teenaged brat, even if Snape was being nigh impossible.

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled. "That was…dumb."

"That's a mild way of putting it," Snape scoffed. A long silence elapsed before he spoke again, slowly, lowly. "If I made myself scarce in the social field in my formative years, perhaps it is because I had the good sense to recognize the fact that people fail to live up to educational standards," he stated. "Especially at dances, may I add, an activity which the most primitive barbarian can accomplish."

"You clearly never tried at dance lessons then," Harry snorted. "It's not as easy as it looks."

Snape had a look on his face as if he were deciding whether or not to say more. Finally, he cracked. "Your mother…once…tried something of the sort on me."

Harry squinted. "Seriously?"

"It was…Christmas. We were children, and she was having some sort of gathering. She wanted to show me how…" He paused, cutting to the chase. "It was pointless drudgery after one dance instruction."

"What kind of dance was it?"

"Just…a basic sort of ballroom dance."

It was so long ago, but Snape still remembered it vividly. He remembered how he had dreaded the idea of showing up at her party in old clothes, but it was either that or spend Christmas listening to his father and mother fighting like cats and dogs, with his father breaking dishes and turning over furniture and his mother threatening to throw hot stew at him.

When he had arrived at her house, Lily came to the door in a little green dress, with red ribbons in her hair. He had never seen her so well-dressed before, and awkwardly remarked that she looked like…a Christmas tree. She had rolled her eyes good-naturedly, taken him by the hand, and pulled him into the party room. As he had predicted, the other children started to mock him for his appearance, but Lily was loyal. She was determined that they should have the first dance.

"So was it a complete catastrophe, or just boring?" Harry inquired.

"It was…not memorable in any way."

Alright, that was not really true. He remembered it very well, and the way she kept cuing him on when to do this and that, and how his hand got hot and sweaty holding her by the waist. And when it ended, she said that he'd done splendidly. And he was proud of himself for a moment. And then…

"So then you just quit after that?"

"As the result of…" He hesitated again. "What is known as a 'swing dance'."

"You did a swing dance?!"

"I said…we _stopped_."

Well, technically true…they stopped because he had virtually panicked when said "swing dance" was announced, not knowing in the least what he was supposed to do, and when he had attempted to engage in it at her insistence, he had fallen into Lily, causing both of them to tumble onto the carpet, to the wild laughter of the other party-goers. And that was that.

"Then what did you do?"

"Why do you care?" Snape huffed.

"I don't know…it's just getting interesting."

Snape sighed. "For your information, we just…sat on the stairs and talked."

"Just…talked? At a party?"

"Good conversation, as I'm sure you've noticed from listening to yourself jabbering on, is extremely hard to come by," he retorted tersely.

"Thanks for nothing."

"The pleasure…is mine."

Snape would not tell him the rest. How, on the stairs, Lily had given him a book of old poetry for Christmas, and he had felt terrible for not having the money to buy her a gift in return. And he had vowed that someday, when he became really famous as a grownup, he would buy her anything she wanted. She could just name it, and he would get it for her.

She had giggled and pointed up at the mistletoe hanging from the stairwell, and said, "You can kiss me, Sevy. That'll be your present!"

He had been frightened to death at such a prospect, and protested faintly that the other more popular boys wouldn't like it.

"But I don't like them half as well as I like you, so it doesn't matter," she had insisted. "Go on, kiss me!"

He had never been asked to kiss someone before. Girls at school, when he could attend, called him a "creeper" and threw balls of crumpled paper at him. They'd ridicule him for his skinny frame and large nose, and he'd shuffle away from them as fast as he could, his temper boiling deep beneath an icy façade.

But when he did kiss her on the cheek, and she blushed as red as the ribbon strung through her red hair, he had decided that he liked it very much. And then she kissed him back. And, flustered as his 10-year-old self had been, he was _sure_ he liked it, after all.

"So you were over my mum's house," Harry connected. "Did you know my Aunt Petunia then?"

His eyes darted to the ceiling. " _Yesss_."

Harry suppressed a chuckle at his tone of response. "What, you didn't like her?"

"Most muggles are insufferable, but she was uniquely so in a way that I could imagine even other muggles would find revolting."

"And you never even met her son," Harry reminded him.

"Her… _son_?"

"Yes, my cousin Dudley. A fat, lazy boy who never did anything but stuff his mouth with sweets and go whining to his mummy about every bloody thing…and taunt me about…my being an orphan."

The professor visibly grimaced, envisioning Petunia's loathsome child.

"Imagine," Harry challenged, "he could have been Lily's son instead of me. Then you would have had to look out for…"

"Are you trying to give me nightmares, Potter?"

"I thought _I_ was your worst nightmare."

He was quiet for a long moment. "Such a creature could never be…Lily's son, no matter who the father was. And if Petunia's offspring ever gave me half as much trouble as you provided me with over the years, I would have cast a transformative spell, turned him into a warthog, and sent him in the direction of the cook."

Now Harry really did laugh. Even though Snape's expression remained humorless, Harry somehow sensed that he was not altogether unamused.

"I blew up her sister-in-law once."

"You what?!"

"Well…I got upset…"

"Dammit, Potter, you knew full well that magic is forbidden to young wizards away from school!" he lectured, leaning up on the cot.

"It was an accident…sort of," he assured. "She called my mum…a bitch. And I was so furious, I couldn't control myself. One minute she was in her chair, and the next minute she started to…well…blow up like a balloon…and then she floated out the window."

Snape looked at the boy quizzically for a moment. "And this was the _only_ time you ever used magic away from Hogwarts?"

"Well…there was the time I…levitated a pudding once…and dropped it on someone's head."

"Ah."

"It wasn't completely my fault…it was more of a…house elf…thing…" He paused for a moment, and asked randomly, "My mum made you a birthday cake once, didn't she?"

Snape's eyes flitted for a moment, embarrassed, before nodding. It must have been revealed through his memories in the vial.

"Did she bake well? Was it a good cake?"

"It was…a very good cake."

"Compared to other birthday cakes, even?"

"Potter, you are an obsessive, aren't you?" He exhaled, frustrated. "It was…the only birthday cake… I ever had."

Harry blinked. _So…they had that in common._ "What kind of cake was it?"

"Chocolate," Snape divulged through gritted teeth, "with raspberry filling." He looked at the young man, and saw some wistful longing in his eyes. "Yes, Potter," he acknowledged with surprising softness, "she would have made them for you too."

"I had a picture of her, on my dresser at Aunt Petunia's," Harry mumbled. "It was autumn, and she was in a tweed cap, and she was with my dad. They were dancing, and smiling…"

He waited for the professor's reaction, which he was prepared to be a sharp retort at his touching upon an old wound. But even though his dark eyes pierced him for a moment, he calmly conceded, "Whatever your father was, he did…care for her. And he would have cared for you as well, as she did." He averted his gaze awkwardly. "She was…caring, that's all."

"Well…maybe that's where I inherit the need to make sandwiches for nasty people who really don't deserve them."

"I assure you, the worst prisoners in Azkaban would deserve sandwiches from you."

"You can't even be an accurate judge of that, as you haven't even touched it!"

The professor stared at him dubiously. Then unexpectedly, he gestured at the paper bag. "My scientific curiosity is being aroused."

"More like hunger!" Harry shot back. "You haven't had anything since your encounter with a certain out-of-control 'pet'. Either that, or you have some perverse desire to be a guinea pig."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Call it a death wish."

"For which one of us?"

"Both/and," he declared. "Since I refuse to be the only one taking this risk, we are going to…split it in half."

"How generous of you!" Harry sparred.

"Give – me – the –sandwich…" Snape paused in his monotone demand, and then finished, " _Now_."


	5. Chapter 4: The Pact

Chapter 4: The Pact

Harry and Snape got fairly used to suspiciously observing one another while they ate lunch together over the next few days. It was a strange situation indeed, but Harry kept showing up at the shack each afternoon with a paper bag containing whatever he had been able scrounge together. The insanity of post-battle Hogwarts meant that the food supply of the school had not been properly restocked, and everyone was forced to make do with meager rations.

But Harry was proving himself willing to share them the cantankerous potions master, as well as supplying him with the pain relief potion that made his waking hours bearable. Typically, they maintained their silence when eating, an uneasy air hanging between them. The past was still very much alive for them, and they were hesitant to reveal their inner thoughts more than was necessary. But sometimes the mealtime "surprises" would generate interesting conversational topics which caused them to discover that talking was not the worst way to pass the time.

One day, Harry brought something wrapped in plastic that officially mystified Snape.

"It looks like a pink fossilized porcupine," he observed, fairly accurately.

"It's from Ron, actually," Harry clarified. "He was kind enough to share it, even though it was in his private reserve."

"Are you referring to his mineral sample collection?"

Harry sighed. "Remember that carnival benefit the school put on back in my second year?"

"Very…vaguely." As he recalled, he had disapproved the frivolous notion of having a carnival on school grounds, but had been outvoted by the rest of the faculty staff. Thus, for the duration of the event, he had retreated to his basement laboratory to prepare extra homework assignments for his class to make up for all the purposeless lollygagging around.

"Well, Ron won this at one of the game stalls." Harry held up the pink entity indicatively.

"Evidently he proceeded to murder the thing."

"It's fairy floss, Snape!"

The professor squinted at it. "Are you postulating that substance was at one point fit for consumption?"

"Well, technically it is still is."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Firstly, that completely lacks nutrients as a meal supplement. Secondly, that type of food is totally contrary to my tastes. Thirdly, someone should really have taught you children more about expiration dates."

"Look, it's all we've got for lunch at the moment, unless we start bringing food from Aberdeen, which can't happen until night, anyway. So if you don't want it, fine, but there's no point in knocking it! I just thought I'd offer…"

"What the bloody hell is going on out there?" Snape snapped, exasperated. "Hasn't the ministry thought to send proper supplies by now without having to import food from muggles?"

"I'm afraid not," Harry exhaled. "It's slow going. A lot of red tape to cut through. McGonnagall has sent most of the students home. There's only a skeleton crew remaining to help dig through the rubble."

"This should not be the job of the students. The ministry must be held to their obligations," he huffed. "The school faculty must hold together if Hogwarts is to survive, and it cannot do so without proper sustenance and assistance in rebuilding."

"Professor McGonagall is doing her best to speed up the process," Harry stated. "Although she's admittedly rather…overwhelmed."

"Of course she is," Snape concurred, and there was a surprising strain of sympathy in his voice. "But all the same, she is an able administrator, and I do not doubt she will achieve the desired results if she keeps at it."

"I'm surprised you managed to compliment her after she beat you at wands," Harry remarked.

He turned his eyes down. "She was doing her duty as she saw it, and I was playing my own part in the best way I knew how. It had to seem _real_ …even to her. But all the same, she is a dedicated teacher and a fine wands-woman."

"Still, you're not exactly known for accepting defeat graciously," Harry pointed out, testily.

Snape dead-eyed him, letting him know he had just ventured into dangerous territory. "I have always been quite adept at accepting defeat, providing my opponent is worthy of respect and the odds are fair," he stated through gritted teeth.

Harry shrugged. "A reference to my father, right?"

"And…to mine."

The young wizard started at his words, observing the strange haze flitting across the man's eyes. "Yours?"

Snape showed no indication that he planned to respond, but there was no way Harry was going to let this go.

"Did you…fight with your dad a lot?"

He still held his silence, his eyes seeing into the past.

"Well, I guess a lot of fathers and sons have at it…"

"He was a muggle," Snape spat. "My mother was a fool to marry him."

"But that kind of…nullifies your existence, doesn't it?"

"If the whole thing were an accidental happening from square one, then I don't suppose…" Snape paused, thinking better on what he was divulging, and to whom he was divulging it. No…he wasn't going to tell him about a late night in a raucous tavern, and a charming factory worker, and a foolish little witch, and how they had slept off the drink together outside under the stars, in each other's embrace…

 _No, no, no, never would he tell him that! Why had he opened up so much already? It wasn't like him at all…but somehow he was overcome by an urge to have someone…even this boy…understand…something…_

He stared at Harry. "Ever and anon, when you misbehaved particularly badly in class, I applied the use of the switch to your…hind quarters. Even you would have to admit that I resorted to corporal punishment only when other disciplinary measures had been tried and failed. But all the same, my question to is…did it hurt, Potter?"

"You bloody well know it did!" Harry exclaimed. "One thing's for sure, you never went soft!"

"But imagine if I had been in an alcoholic rage," Snape hypothesized, "and I lost control of myself, and used my full strength against you when you were a boy. What if I had struck you all over your body, including your face, until I drew blood, then I threw you against a wall?"

Harry looked sick. "You'd have been locked up if you ever did that to a kid!" Suddenly Harry understood what Snape was trying to break to him. "Your dad…"

"Deserved to be cursed by the wand," Snape finished. "But my mother, witch though she was, would never allow it. No, not even when she was being beaten."

Snape remembered how he had once tried to defend her with his wand as a boy, but she had stopped him long enough for his father to disarm him and proceed to beat the living daylights out of him. He never bothered to come to her defense again, not when she had willfully put him at such a horrible disadvantage.

"I'm…sorry …" Harry attempted.

"That's NOT why I told you about this," Snape exhaled in annoyance. "I told you…to demonstrate my point. I don't mind being beat, as long as I have a fighting chance at winning. Do you understand now?"

"Yeah," the boy admitted. "That makes sense." He looked back at him. "Did my mum know about this? I mean, your getting beat up and all?"

Snape nodded slowly. "She…she was kind to me."

He remembered well the first day she had seen him in such a state. It was not long after they had first met, but before they were really friends. Snape, always stern and aloof, had only been meeting with her to help her master her magic. He dared not expect anything more to come of their association. But when she saw his face, bruised and bleeding, and his shirt torn, she immediately reached out to help.

"No, don't touch me," he had choked. He had been hurting all over and didn't want pity.

But Lily hadn't listened.

"Severus, please, I'm your friend…"

"I don't have any friends, I…I don't _want_ any friends!"

"Yes, you do." She had moved her arm around his back and nuzzled her head into his shoulder.

His pride had wanted to yank away, but it felt good being touched in a way that didn't cause pain. And soon some protective part of him just gave way, melting his anger into tears, and he found himself crying in her arms, his small fists clenched tight.

She had proceeded to wipe the blood off his lip and temple with her handkerchief, then offered it to him to blow his nose. He recalled that it was very pretty, and he hadn't wanted to use it. He was used to just using his sleeve.

"Severus, that's what it's for! Go on, you'll feel better."

He finally did so, and she dried the tears away for him. Then they had just lain quietly together, under their special tree, as the sun sank beneath the horizon.

"How long…do you think we'll be friends?" he had inquired tentatively.

"Always, Severus."

"But that's…that's forever. What if one of us dies or something?" He had been thinking of himself, thinking of his father bashing in his brains one day.

"We're not going to die for a long, long time," she had assured. "But regardless, it would still be…always. Just like in the old songs. It's our pact together."

She had squeezed his hand then, and he had allowed himself to smile, just a little bit. Even a severe young boy might know of moment of happiness.

"Did you know my grandparents?" Harry now asked.

Drawn back to the present, Snape swallowed. "Her parents were not…bad people."

"So not bad for muggles, you mean?"

"They were…a rarity."

He remembered Lily introducing him to her family that same night, insisting that he have supper with them since there was hardly any food at his house, and it simply wasn't safe to go back until his father calmed down. Everyone knew about dirt poor Tobias Snape and how much time he had been spending in the tavern, leaving his wife and son in a sorry state.

So when young Severus came in, they had all given him one of those scanning looks, observing his shabby attire and cut up face. He had taken a step behind Lily, wanting to melt away, especially when Petunia turned her nose up and started whining at their entry. Lily promptly stuck out her tongue at her sister, and their mother had to break up the squabbling. She was a soft-spoken, practical woman, and was very much in command of her home.

"Now, young man," Mrs. Evans had said, looking into Snape's serious eyes. "Come wash up before we eat."

And so he did with a towel and a basin of water, rather fastidiously, like a cat. He suddenly felt rather desperate to make a good impression. At the table, he was awkward with the utensils, and he knew he ate faster than he should have…but he was _hungry_. Not the kind of hunger regular children had between meals, but the kind when there is no food in the house, and you start to wonder if the next meal is ever coming.

Finishing the last bit on his plate before anyone else, he had sat there quietly, not quite sure what to do next, except fumble with his napkin in an effort to prove he wasn't quite the barbarian Petunia was convinced he was. But Lily's mother read his mind well, and nonchalantly she slipped him another piece of shepherd's pie and refilled his glass of milk. She made no fuss about it, nor did he, but he hoped the quick glance they had shared indicated his gratitude.

Afterwards, Mr. Evans, a rough-hewn yet kindly man, had offered to take Severus home. The boy had naturally rejected the offer, scared to death of the humiliation he would face if his father came staggering to the door. Besides, he had a feeling that the man was seriously considering notifying the police if anything looked further amiss.

"Lad," he had addressed him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to be taking this all onto yourself. If it gets bad, come to us. We'll give you what help we can." He had glanced at his daughter and back at the boy. "She likes you well, lad. And she's never been wrong in her judgment before. Don't let them hooters bother ya none, alright?"

 _Oh, yes…Snape remembered them…the ones who took one look at him, and said he was destined for the bottle…_

Aloud, he told Harry, "Your father of blessed memory predicted I would die a drunk." Snape's voice sounded like a razor to the young wizard, cutting both ways out of nowhere. "He and his Gryffindor thugs would take great pains to smuggle bottles among my belongings and then expose them in front of the professors. Once they even…tried to force the stuff down my throat, so the scent would be on me before an exam. But I spit it out in their faces."

Harry grimaced at the perverse pride mixed with pain in his voice. He knew that a drunk would never be allowed to excel at potions in the school, and that his father and his friends must have been trying to destroy any chance of him having a career in that field. He knew…he knew…it was nothing less than cruel.

"But I would never give them…their pleasure," Snape hissed. "I would never…give them…my mind, my skill, my success! They couldn't…have it…" He shut his eyes tight.

Silence reigned for a long while. Then Harry spoke up. "We don't have to be everything our fathers were. We just have to sort out the good from the bad, and then be ourselves. Or at least…try to find ourselves."

Snape snickered. "Words of wisdom?"

Harry shrugged. "Just reality. You're proof of it. You may have a crumby personality and dark past, but at least you're not a drunk. And…it's not like you've gone about hitting people without some reason for it. And as for me, I…"

The professor stared at him for a long moment. "You are what you are, hmm?"

"I'd like to think so."

"You think you can cheat the past, don't you?" His voice was edgy.

"No," Harry denied, and he refused to back down from Snape's fierce gaze. "It's just about…moving on, that's all."

Snape turned away. "Easier for some, Potter." He spied a spider in the corner of the room dangling from a thread, and saw the thread snap, and the insect fall. "Easier for some."


	6. Chapter 5: Anathema Sit

Chapter 5: Anathema Sit

The next day, Harry arrived at the shack toting a small wagon behind him filled with a pile of old books with fraying colored bindings and gold embossed lettering.

"Alright, what… _is_ all that?" Snape demanded. Then he got a closer look at the books, and recognized them as having come from his own collection. "Where did you get those?"

"School sale," Harry blurted. "It enabled us to spring for the survival food."

"They're selling my books?!"

"Snape, to them, you're dead. Your infamous reputation has earned you a rather devoted posthumous following among the students. They seem to view your stuff like mementos from Jack the Ripper. No harm done."

"No harm…" The professor licked his lips, trying to wrap his mind around his newfound "fame", and whether he was pleased about it or not. Then he rolled his eyes at Harry. "And what induced you to lay claim to them, may I ask? Don't you have enough fame to last you at the moment, Chosen One?"

"Curiosity, mostly," Harry admitted. "You never struck me as a literature buff. Well…not this kind of literature anyway." He pulled out a volume of old Arthurian poetry. "These things look as if you read them through a hundred or more times."

 _He had. More than a hundred times, both regularly and magically. They were his solace in the darkest hours, the things that kept him company in his dungeon, the stories that made him feel a little more alive than dead…_

"Perhaps my personal interests are for my own private recreation," he snapped. "Not meant for public analysis, much less by the enlightened student body."

"Okay, okay, no need to get touchy," Harry assured. "I'm turning them over to your custody at any rate."

Snape tilted his head, admittedly pleased that his books had been saved from the grubby mitts of the other buyers, but still suspicious of Potter's intent. "Why would you bother going to that length?"

"Because, in case you're interested, you're not quite dead," the young man replied.

"Yet," Snape finished.

"Always looking on the bright side of life," Harry quipped, pulling a thin rectangular box out of the wagon. "I also brought this, courtesy of the school that doesn't know I brought it, and would probably hang me if they knew I did."

Snape squinted at the label on the box. It read: "Mama Rosita's Pizzeria, Aberdeen."

"Seriously? We've been brought to this point?!" He exhaled, and fell back against his pillow in despair.

"Don't be so melodramatic," Harry chided him. "It took a huge junk sale to get enough for everyone to have some. And it's better than Ron's fairy floss, you have to admit that."

Snape groaned. "Your sense of perspective is shot by worst case scenarios."

"That sounds more like you than me!" Harry retorted, pulling apart the remaining pizza slices so they could share. "Umm…do you mind if there's pineapple on yours? I really prefer the pepperoni…"

"Who the hell ordered that?"

"Well…Ron."

"He's trying to kill me."

"He doesn't even know you're still alive!"

"It's a subconscious sort of thing."

"Okay, you're really getting paranoid now." Harry slid the pizza onto one of the paper plates in the box and shoved it at him.

Snape touched the edge of the crust reluctantly. "Its ice cold," he lamented.

Harry sighed in frustrated and whipped out his wand. "Put the pizza back in the box."

"What…what _are_ you trying to do?"

"Watch."

So he did, in a mix between fascination and horror, as Harry heated both the slices with his wand. "Is this what the world of magic has come to? Is this what we sacrificed to preserve all these years? The fine art of using wands as pizza-heaters?"

"Hey, you're the one who was complaining about the temperature!" The task completed, he slipped the slice back onto the plate and extended it back to Snape, who reluctantly accepted it.

"I figured something else out about you, Snape," Harry declared, taking a large bite out of his wand-heated pizza slice.

"Pray tell," the professor droned, tentatively lifting his own slice towards his mouth.

"It's your personality type. You're an INTJ."

"How stimulating. My life is now complete."

"Would you quit with the sarcasm for just a second and let me get the rest out?"

Snape sighed, folding the rather drippy (thanks to the wand) pizza up so he could eat it more like a sandwich. "I seem to be at your mercy in this position, do I not?"

"You do at that," Harry concurred, pulling up the stool to continue his hypothesis. "You see, it's the personality thing that makes you view the world the way you do. Introverted-Intuition-Thinking-Judging. People who are like that come off as arrogant and elitist because they have a lot of ambition without the need to express emotion."

"You should go for psychology," Snape suggested slyly.

"Well, I wouldn't say I was _that_ good…"

"I meant psychological help."

"Thanks, Snape. Always inspiring me onward and upward."

When they had finished the pizza, Harry started looking through the books again. Snape observed him silently, then muttered under his breath, "Make them your friends, Potter. They'll pass to you soon enough."

"Who says I want them?" Harry scoffed, in a tone that reminded Snape so much of Harry's father it set his teeth on edge. "What worth are they to me?"

Something inside Snape sank. "You don't understand, do you? You don't understand…no, you'll never understand. Of course, you won't. Your father never understood either. You're so caught up in your own precious little worlds, you don't…you can't manage it, can you? You can't understand what was said…that the poets leave hell and again behold the stars."

"Oh, God, don't tell me you committed this stuff to memory?"

Snape gazed hard at the book open in Harry's hand and caught the page number. "And a great racket was made by the arms of those who came," he started to recite, and there was a certain dark pride in that deep voice of his, "and often against the arms struck the branches of oaks and hornbeams. The woods resounded, resounded the iron of the shields and the hauberks."

Harry looked down at the book, and then up at him, impressed. "So…you have memorized it."

He smirked slightly and continued, "He marveled and said, 'By my soul, my lady mother spoke true when she told me that devils are more frightening than anything in the world." His smirk faded, his mind traveling somewhere horrible. "She instructed me to make the sign of the cross to ward them off, but I never cross myself. This teaching I disdain." Snape turned to Harry. "Are you familiar at all with Dante's Inferno?"

"Er…no." Harry shrugged.

"Then you would not know much of the Excommunicant, the one cut off from the living body like a dead stump, cast out into the darkness and accursed." He stared out blankly at the far side of the room and quoted, "In the middle of the journey of our life, I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost." He bit his lower lip. "The Latin pronouncement was ' _Anathema Sit_ '. Do you know what it means, Potter?"

"I might have heard it…somewhere. It's a curse, right?"

"It means, 'To us, thou art as hellfire'," he translated ominously. "In the past it was considered a punishment worse then death, for it did not merely sever the body from the soul, but rather it was thought to sever the will from conscience. So that person would be…cast out, beyond the reach of…remedy, communion, or succor. It was a declaration of a guilt that could not be removed in a soul that could never know peace while the curse hung upon him, for time and all eternity."

Harry looked genuinely disturbed. "What sort of crime could merit such a punishment?"

"Oh, there have been many terms for it in writings of old…the sin against the spirit, the sin that can never be forgiven. The nature of the act is not so damning as the state of a soul that turns in on itself. You can throw back the silver, but the rope is still around your neck. It shrouds you, like a cloak, until it becomes a part of you, and it has teeth, like ice, and they tear and numb." He shivered a little, clearly doing more now than simply expounding on literary themes. "Trapped betwixt and between, fallen down a hole from which you cannot emerge, unable to see through the dark. But still, everyday, you fight it, because it is beside you always, whispering in your ear. And you say, you cannot have…all of me. No, not _all_. And you fight for any little bit you can salvage…to say no, no, no…you don't…have all of me…yet…but the laugh is on you, because…the door is already locked, and you cannot find the key."

"But there must be a key… _somewhere_." Harry's voice carried a note of emotional investment he hadn't intended. Perhaps he felt the dread of darkness too close within his own breast to believe that it could ever be so final if he were to stumble into its embrace.

Snape chuckled cynically. "That is the theme of all life and literature, is it not? The search for the component of salvation. The horn one should have blown, the grail one should have found, the cross one should have made...moments you cannot replay, events you cannot recast, choices you cannot undo. The last vain hope you cling to is that somehow you could retrace your steps…back to the first cause, the origin of the descent…and then crush it into dust. But even so, you find…there is no freedom in the act, and the first blood is still on your head."

Snape grimaced as he was onslaughted with memories. He recalled how after Lily's death he had confronted the cruel mirror of desire, and seen the Dark Lord in front of him. Snape's eyes had hardened at the sight. "You won't get her boy. I won't let you…get to her boy. And someday, he will bring you down." He had clenched his fist so hard, his fingernails bit into his palm. "You taught me to hate and to kill," he had hissed. "And now you've created your own worst monster. My soul may be sold to you, but it has been purchased at a far dearer price than you ever bargained for."

Then he had seen Lily in the glass, still as a braided girl, when she'd got him over to the abandoned playground, and coaxed him onto the merry-go-ground at age 9. He of course had objected; it was too childish, to be sure. But she had insisted it was fun. So they had clung onto the bars, and round and round, round and round they went…until she fell off and scraped her elbow. He had jumped down, making a regular fuss over it.

 _"_ _Lily! Oh, oh…you're hurt! Don't worry; I'll take care of you…"_

"Leave me!" the older Snape had shouted at the glass, banishing the memories, but the tears were already in his eyes. Then the image of Voldemort had returned, and he had seen the sheer hollowness of his quest for power that he had been blind to till this moment. He had believed being a part of the Dark Lord's new regime would make him strong; but now he saw that he had been strongest when caring about the scraped elbow of a little girl.

"You have no greatness, but your ability to cheat," he had rasped. "As such, I will cheat you, every day, and you will not know it. You will think you have a death-eater, but I bring death to eat you instead! _You did thirst for blood, and with blood I fill you!_ " His frame was shaking from the lethal combination of grief and rage. "I am made of different stuff than you thought; I can play my own game, on my own terms, in the bowels of your hell. The unicorn's blood is not the purest you have drawn, and you have drunk your own poison. _She will be avenged_."

And then to his utmost horror, all the magic of the mirror had faded, and he was left facing his own reflection, stark and bitter, like the burn of ice on one's tongue, and it mocked him, for he was all alone. He had recoiled from it, a lifetime worth of wizarding spells whispering sweet nothings in his ears, and sending static through his mind, for they too, in this moment, were empty to him.

"What…what are you?!" he had spat, gazing into the darkness of his own eyes swallowing him up from the bitter glass.

And so it had answered, so that shadow of himself had answered: " _Remember, thou art only a man_ …"

And all the strings of his heart had been torn asunder, and he had leaned against the mirror, wishing to melt it away with the burning heat of sorrow…and sobbed.

Back at the shack, back in front of this green-eyed visage of his love and hate, Snape shook himself hard and returned to the present. He was overcome with a desire to change the mood and the subject, and inquired, in an uncharacteristically soft tone, "Would you…like me to teach you something?"

"Depends what the something is," Harry replied carefully.

"It's simple," he assured. "Just…take your wand, hover it over the book, and say, ' _Libro vivere'_." There was something in Snape's eyes that almost resembled innocent eagerness, a yearning to evoke a different response than fear or revulsion after his morose reflections on his own inevitable damnation.

Harry did as he was told and to his amazement, in the twinkling of a an eye, he saw the whole sweep of the Arthurian saga come to life in a whirl of color and clamor, and he heard the steel clashing and the songs of the troubadours, and felt the exhilaration of battle and the melancholy of lost love and lost chances. And he turned back to Snape, and saw that his former teacher, observing Harry's awe, had an ever-so-slight smile inching its way across the usually hard-set line of his mouth. And in that instant, Harry had never sorrowed for him more.


	7. Chapter 6: A Song for Easter

Chapter 6: A Song for Easter

Harry and Snape's conversations became much more literarily focused after his books came into the equation. The boy discovered that this old teacher had quite a hidden passion for the subject, and seemed just a little less stiff and morose when discussing it. It fascinated Harry to observe this other side of his longtime nemesis, and he started to read through some of his musty tomes just so he could make broad inquiries to set Snape off on a tangent.

The responses always started with a typically snide remark, along with lines of "Really now, you bricker-brack boy, isn't it bloody obvious?" Then he would go on to explain, in great detail, the "obvious", which he had obviously given a great deal of thought. Harry couldn't help but get something of a kick out of it, and the way he seemed to have an encyclopedic ability to recall and recite the most obscure of verses and folkloric allegories.

Snape may have been an expert at potions, but he seemed to loathe teaching about them. He had let the skill go so far to his head that he had no tolerance for children struggling through it in their earlier attempts. He seemed to think it below his expertise, a shameful waste of his abilities. Lecturing in class almost seemed to have been a jaw-wrenching experience for him, exuding nothing but annoyance and ill-temperament.

But with literature, it was different. The subject seemed to flow out of him with verve. Snide introductory remarks aside, Harry could read something special dancing in those dark eyes when he was retelling and analyzing the classics. They did not say, "See, I am an expert," as they did in potions class, but rather, "See, I am alive."

One day, Harry ventured to remark, "Snape, I think you missed your calling. You should have taught world literature."

Snape snorted. "And teach in some wretched muggle school, I suppose?"

"I don't know," Harry countered. "You might have just shocked yourself into liking it."

"Where would the glory have been in that, pray tell, wasting away in a backroom library with a lot of little muggle monsters asking me stupid questions I'd have to give reasonable answers to, and magic left to rot?"

"But…you seem to talk about this stuff as if it _were_ magic. You actually seem to…love this stuff. Getting glory is nowhere near as good as loving something."

Snape opened his mouth, preparing to retort, and then stopped. _This damned boy had just summed up the quandary of his whole life._

"Some might…seriously disagree with that snippy little statement, Potter."

"Yeah, but something tells me they're not particularly happy people. Maybe successful and famous, but hey, successful and famous people can still be miserable."

"Love can make people miserable as well," Snape stated.

"Sounds like a poem in one of these books I found last night," Harry remarked. "It's called 'Annachie Gordon', about some girl who poisons herself because she gets married off to the wrong guy, and then he shows up too late, and dies on top of her."

Snape looked at him strangely. "That was…an elegant way of putting it."

"Well, that's what happened," Harry mumbled. "But there was one thing I wanted to ask you. Why did you have this song marked 'Easter'? You seemed to have scratched it in the corner of the page with a pen. But there was no mention of Easter in it."

Snape winced. "It was…just a memory."

 _Yes, a very vivid memory…one that he would replay over and over and over again until his dying hour. It was the last time he spent a day with Lily as her friend._

It was the spring before starting their fifth year at Hogwarts. Fifteen-year-old Snape had been sitting on the stoop on that Easter morning, just watching the world go by with indifferent, almost dead eyes, as he often did at that time, not thinking of much to recommend it. But he had found himself humming an old tune under his breath absentmindedly, and his mother heard it.

"Sev," she had called to him in a raspy voice, and he had looked up at her, and saw a sad smile on her worn face, wrinkled to make her look twice her real age. "That's 'Annachie Gordon' you're humming, ain't it?"

"Suppose it is," he'd mumbled in reply.

He had felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. "Maybe it's an old wives tale, but they say that young folk humming that might just be in love, and bad off for it."

Snape shrugged. He and his mother had never shared the closest relationship, not since she'd let his father beat him without the defense of her wand, and he didn't like her prying.

"You know the Evans girl will be down at the church with her family today," she reminded him. "Why not go down and…say hello?"

"I think I'm the last person she wants to see in that place. I'm something of a devilish freak, remember, mother?"

Of course, he'd meant the words to be bitter, he'd meant them to sting. She did not even know the half of it, how he had been bullied and abused at Hogwarts, and how the power of darkness had entranced him, and made the rest of the world with clean fingernails and false smiles shudder at his approach. They would be among the heroes, and he would be among the villains, and that was that, and he could live with it. He could grow powerful and feared that way, and no one would ever dare cross him again. But he still blamed her, somehow he blamed her all the same…for what had been and was about to be lost.

But in an instant, he regretted the harshness of his tone as he had felt her pull him up against her, and she murmured brokenly, "Oh, my boy, my boy…I'm so…sorry…" She sniffled back a sob and then broke down in a cough.

He had looked up, worry prickling up his spine. "Alright…?" he asked, afraid that his voice showed too much of his concern. She had been coughing a lot over the past few weeks, and it sounded like she was scratching up her throat.

She waved her hand dismissively. "Fine, just a tickle." Again, her eyes filled with a look of melancholy. "I…I just want you to know…no matter what happens…I'm proud of you, Severus."

He felt her hand run through his messy black hair, and he jerked away, struggling to his feet. "I think…I shall take a walk," he stated shortly. "Want me to…pick up anything?"

It was just a game they played together to save face; they both knew full well there was no muggle money to buy anything at the moment, and they probably would go without supper tonight, unless Tobias shocked them and showed up with the winnings from a card game. Medicine for her cough was out of the question, as was any muggle doctor.

"No need," she replied, with faux cheerfulness. "You just…enjoy your walk."

So he had gone out walking, right up to the little Methodist church he didn't like to be around due to the assortment of disdainful "pious" faces who viewed him and his parents as little better than insects. He watched from behind a cherry tree lined wall as the attendants streamed out from the morning Easter service.

Then he caught sight of Lily in her Sunday best, rosy-cheeked and smiling, talking with a group of her girlfriends outside the church door. She turned and started walking alongside her sister Petunia, who was evidently lecturing her about something, most likely having to do with associating with the riff-raff from the less comfortable end of the parish. Lily, as ever, was still the kind one.

And Snape was still the antagonist. With a smirk, he picked up an acorn and flung it in the direction of Petunia, knocking her squarely in the ear. She yelped and Lily turned in the direction of the flying projectile. She squinted, knowingly, and marched over to the wall.

"Severus!"

Snape gazed at her, his eyes dancing with naughty pleasure.

Her eyes squinted, and for a moment, they seemed on the brink of glinting with some strong emotion. "Sev…you bad, bad boy…" Her voice trembled with the unspoken message: _It's been so long…so very long…_

"If you don't object to spending a little bit of your Easter with a heathen," he muttered under his breath, "this bat might just be hanging in the woods come noon." And then he spied red-faced Petunia angrily rampaging towards the wall, and rapidly darted away.

And so he waited by the stream in the woods for her for hours, wondering nervously if she would show or not. And then finally, she did. _All was not lost_.

She had changed into casual attire of jeans, a green cardigan sweater, and a tweed cap, with a bulging pouch slung over her sweater. He couldn't help but smirk.

"What?" she challenged, tilting her head.

"It's just…a Lily-ism, taking that much stuff along for a walk in the woods."

"Hey, I like to be prepared!" She unzippered one of the compartments, revealing…candy. Lovely, colorful, Easter candy.

"Wonderful," he exhaled. "Now I shall be dealing with you on sugar overload."

"Well, I won't eat it all on you." She winked, and they both set themselves up for a devouring fest underneath a nearby oak tree. And then they talked. And talked. And talked. _Damn, they hadn't talked like that in so long…if felt good. Like unplugging a valve._

"Okay, so…what made you emerge from the shadows exactly?" Lily inquired after a long while. "I know you hate going around the church."

"I believe you churchgoers have postulated that Easter is a time of…new beginnings. Besides…I happen to suspect your Christ had Slytherin tendencies."

" _Severus!_ "

"Well, he's said to have turned back death, correct? Therefore he had to be a wizard, and a very powerful one at that to overcome death. My only question is why he didn't prevent the whole mess to begin with…"

"I think you're sort of missing the point of the story," Lily stated lowly. "Sometimes…you can't…cheat death, if you want to save others. You have to…embrace it for them."

Snape looked uncomfortable for a moment, and glanced over at her bag. He noticed the edge of a book jutting out, and took the liberty of pulling it out, in spite of Lily's cross expression.

"What a stimulating title," Snape remarked, stifling a chuckle. "I didn't know _Tom the Talking Carrot_ was on your must-read list."

"It's a gift for my baby cousin, dufus!" she sighed, punching him the arm.

"Oh, well…let's explore the scintillating reading experience he shall have," he decided flipping it open to page one.

"Now you're being loony!"

"I think it's important to make sure there's nothing traumatic contained within…like, the March Hare shows up at the end and devours Talking Tom. Could put your cousin away in a mental ward…"

Now Lily was cracking up, and as Snape read through the little picture book in his flawless monotone, tossing in sarcastic commentary aplenty, Lily was rolling in the grass laughing. Somewhere along the line, she teasingly snatched the book away from him, and inaugurated a lighthearted little chase that almost ended with her falling off a slippery rock she had hopped on in the middle of a stream. But Snape had been faster and caught her before the tumble.

"Whoa, Lils…easy, I won't go after Talking Tom anymore."

"Ha! Well, he owes you a debt of gratitude, as he might well have been washed downstream."

"I suppose carrots can't swim then."

"Not a stroke."

They both started laughing at this, and then they quieted awkwardly, remembering Snape's arm steadying her around her waist.

"But I must admit…I don't believe he was the prime reason…for my gallantry…"

For a long moment their eyes met, searching each other out…and their faces seemed to drift closer together…until their noses touched. Again, there was more embarrassed chuckling. "You still have some freckles…on your nose," he remarked tapping the place where the cluster existed. "I thought you'd lost them all by now."

"I know," she groaned. "They refuse to go away. I feel hexed or something."

"No, I'm glad they're not all gone. I think…I'd have missed them."

She smiled sadly, then buried her face in his dingy gray overcoat, worn from age and too many patches. "I've missed you, Sevy."

"Well…I'm here now," he muttered lamely, affectionately tucking a stray strand of her red hair back under her tweed cap. But in his heart, he knew exactly what she meant. He knew this comforting little dream could not last…not if he chose the path of glory-strewn shadows. Originally, he had thought his skills with the dark arts would impress Lily, but now he knew, in an unspoken way, that it was threatening to tear them apart.

"Remember on the first train to Hogwarts," Lily reminisced, "how we sat next to each other and shared a bag of honey roasted nuts and determined to take over the world together?"

"Vividly." The corner of the young man's mouth twitched. "We were going to be the Cokeworth Coalition. They couldn't…get between us."

"Remember when we talked about traveling the world together, before then?"

"Mmm. As I recall, the little girl version of you was quite set on seeing a white tiger in Siberia, and drinking chocolate in Spain, and buying a fan in China, am I right?"

She beamed at his memory. "And as I recall, you wanted to go follow in the footsteps of all the great sorcerers of history…including Merlin himself!"

"It sounds rational to me," he asserted. "Magic is life for us, after all."

She looked down and shook her head. "You see, that's what makes you and me different, Sev. I don't believe that. I think life is…bigger than that. We're bigger than that. I'd give up all the magic in the world if it meant…" She swallowed hard. "Sometimes I wish…we just went to the local muggle school instead. Then there wouldn't have been any Slytherins or Gryffindors, just…us. I think we would have had a better chance not getting sorted away from each other, and could have gone on as…The Cokeworth Coalition." She took his hands in her own and swung them a little. "Nothing could have…gotten between us."

 _Gotten between them…oh…he knew what she was thinking of…too well…_

"But we wouldn't be 'us' if we were muggle," he argued, the very notion disgusting him, although her words had made him turn his eyes to the ground. "Magic is what made us friends. Without it, I'd never have come to trust you. It's the deepest part of us."

"I think…not." She turned him a little, hands still joined mimicking a swing dance.

 _Memories…so many memories…that bring smiles…and tears…_

"I remember your dress…that Christmas," he remarked, with mirthful twitch at his lips. "You were… _are_ …" He paused, turning red.

She smiled coyly and spun away from him. "My father has warned me about young men going into fifth year," she rambled lightly. "Evidently he is very concerned I shall fall in with a bad set and lose my virtue, or be pushed in a locker or something if I wear my clothes too tight…"

"If anyone ever did that to you, I would kill them." His words were as cold, and deadly earnest, as steel, and they left Lily shocked. She knew he meant it, and she knew how he meant it. _The Killing Curse_.

"Sev, I…I wouldn't want you to do that, and you know it."

He softened his tone a little, but none of the earnestness, and continued, "If anyone caused you real harm, I would…I would not rest until…they paid for it." He exhaled. "I have…been defenseless too many times when banned from cursing. Now…now I can fight and win. I can protect myself, and…those who I…"

"Now you sound like an over-protective big brother," she chuckled, but it felt forced. She was trying to make light of the intensity of his words that frightened her. "But don't think they won't be putting the pressure on you during fifth year too. One of those Slytherin girls, I bet…I bet she'll try and get you to spend the night with her."

"It won't happen." Their eyes met again, and he continued, "I…I'm not the type to…do that sort of thing…believe it or not. I know there are lots of things you don't approve of in me lately, but I would…do right by a girl…if I cared enough about her, and would want to make it all right before…that."

She smiled. "I know you would. At heart, you're a caring person."

He snorted. "I…highly doubt that. In case you've noticed, whatever empathy I may possess has not manifested itself for people who rankle my nerves or get in my way." _And that counted for muggles in general…of course._

"Yes, you do act abysmally sometimes," she admitted. "And it hurts me when you do, because…I know you're not so tough. You like to act that way, but I know you, Sev. I know, I know deep down, you're good...and no matter how far down you bury it, that goodness will resurface some day. That's…that's why we're friends, Sev. So please, don't…get lost…" She was biting her lip now, struggling to hold back her depth of feeling.

He drew closer to her, not sure how to respond. "I…I have more faith in your ability to find me than…than in my ability to…lose myself." He glanced nervously at the darkening sky. "Bloody hell, it's so late…better get you home…"

And they had walked home through the woods together, their mood mostly somber…until Lily started humming and then singing something under her breath.

"Harking is bonny, and there lives my love…my love lies on him, and cannot remove…it cannot remove for all that I have done…and I never will forget my love, Annachie…"

 _What a wild coincidence that she should have her mind on the same song that had started off his day! Or…was it…?_

"You who are her maidens, come take me by the hand…and lead me to her chamber, where my love she lies in…and he kissed her cold lips till her heart had turned to stone…and he died in her chamber, where his love, she lies in…"

"That's so sad, Lily," Snape remarked, realizing that the song had touched an unusually emotional chord in him. "It makes me sad to hear you sing sad songs."

"But it's beautiful," she insisted. "They loved each other always, even through death. I think everyone wants to be loved like that. I certainly would like to be"

When they reached Lily's house, and he escorted her to the door, she looked deep into his eyes again. "You came to see me today for a reason, Sev. What was it?"

He shrugged. "Do I have to have some reason to…?"

"No, but you did have one this time, and still do, and that's the whole point. Can't you tell me what it is?"

Looking into those green eyes, and feeling their concern for him, he had wanted to blurt it all out to her, wanted to get out all the pain and confusion and frustration eating away at his heart. He had wanted to tell her that his mother was coughing like she was going to die, and his father had been coming home less and less often, presumably spending more time in taverns out of town in the arms of pretty barmaids. He wanted to tell her that the store credit was all out, and he couldn't get any work because his father had burnt all the bridges with the other townspeople and they trusted no one named Snape, much less a bitter, brooding young man who everybody said had "gone Goth" and might murder one of them in their beds.

He wanted to tell her how murky his mind was in the falling darkness, and that no matter how it thrilled him, no matter how obsessed he had become with it, he was beginning to sense that he was getting in over his head, and it frightened him. He knew, he knew in his innermost self, that as much as his companions from Slytherin had given him the chance to rise (or fall) to greatness, they were not truly his friends. He wanted to tell her – _oh, dare he risk it?_ – that she was the one he truly loved, and that he would be willing to try and do anything for her, anything at all…if she would just _ask_ , if she would yell at him, or plead with him, or just reach out her hand in that moment, and pull him back towards the surface.

But he had not been ready to bear his heart. No, in this crucial moment, he had not managed it. Maybe later, he had thought, maybe he could get it out later, if they spent more time together, and grew back together again like the old days, and his defensive walls could come down again. So he asked tentatively, "You'll…be home for a while now, won't you?"

"Actually, my family will be going to visit my aunt in Cardiff for our holiday. That's the reason for the book. I'll be seeing my little cousin…"

"Oh." It was all he could say in that moment, although the look of pale desolation on his face spelled out the rest. He needed her… _please, please, I need you to stay…_

"Sev, something _is_ wrong," she realized in horror, squeezing his arm.

"No…no, it's nothing…" He started to turn away.

"Severus!" She gripped him tight and forced him to meet her gaze again. She swallowed hard, and started digging in her pouch. "I'm going to give you my aunt's phone number. And you're going to call me, Sev, understand? You're going to call me, and we're going to talk."

"Lils, I don't have a phone, you know that."

"Then use a phone booth, genius!"

"You know…that wouldn't work." He bit his lip. _They cost money._

She exhaled. "I've got some allowance left…"

"No, I will _not_ take your money, Lily!"

She was already pulling several paper bills from her pouch and forcing them into his hand. "Enough with the pride already! Get your mum something for Easter, from the Evans family." She added softly. "I already know about your tussle with the grocer over the cough medicine and the charge account."

 _Oh, he hadn't want her to know that…how he had practically been reduced to pleading, and then threats, when the grocer had refused to let him have it based on his father's old charge account. "I don't want no ill-begotten snout-face making demands of me! Get lost, you lazy good for nothing! You're just like your father!" And Snape had hissed back that he would rue those words soon enough, and had thought well on the type of curse he would lay upon him when he became a full-fledged death-eater…_

"I still…don't think…it's appropriate," Snape protested, trying to push the money back.

"It's totally appropriate," Lily assured. "Get your mum the medicine, get something nice for supper…and save what's left to call me." She started fuddling in her pouch again and pulled out a pink glitter pen and a loose napkin.

Snape dared a smirk. "Yet another Lily-ism. Pink glitter pens. Seriously, does that thing never run dry? You must have had it since you were 10…"

"I keep a steady supply on hand," she assured, "all from the same mega-pack I got for my ten-year-old birthday. Now…turn around so I can write this."

"Hmm?"

"Just turn!"

When his back was to her, she used it as a hard base to write against the napkin.

"So now I'm a blackboard? What is the world coming to?" He made an amused noise.

"And that was a Sev-ism," she twitted. "The famous laugh-snort."

He turned over his shoulder and glared at her.

"And that is the famous Severus glare," she added.

Snape, still playing straight-man, raised his eyebrow severely and Lily burst out laughing. And he was so, so pleased this day had proved he still had the ability to make her laugh.

Then everything fell apart at once.

Lily's father came out the door, and physically pulled his daughter away him.

"Where have you been, girl?! You mother and me have worried sick!" Then his eyes fell on Snape. "You kept her out, didn't you? Would you be trying to take advantage of her?"

"I've done _nothing_ ," Snape growled, but the accusation hurt to the core.

"Oh, no?" he spotted the money in the boy's hand. "I know what you're doing…like you're father did to so many others!" He snatched the money away forcefully.

"Dad, please, stop it!" Lily shrieked. "It's _my_ money…"

"I gave you allowance because I thought you wiser than to waste it!" He grabbed his daughter's arm and pulled her towards the house.

She turned and gave Snape a last, heart-tugging look as she was dragged onto the porch. Severus felt immobilized, just staring back into her green eyes, fixated. And then the door slammed shut…shut forever.

"The boy's gone bad, Lily," he had heard her father say from inside the house. "I'm as sorry to admit it as the next person, but it's true."

"Severus is my friend!" she had defended him through tears. "He would never hurt me…"

"Enough! I don't want you seeing him anymore, is that clear, girl?"

"He's not some sort of disease! He needs help! What if he were your son?"

"Thankfully, that's not the case. I have enough trouble with you, and your too-good heart!" He softened his voice a little. "You would have been used, Lily. He'd have spent your money on something untoward, just his father would have. He's no good, child."

Snape had just stood there, rooted to the spot, crumbling the napkin with her aunt's phone number in his hand. Then he had let it fall in a muddy puddle next to him. He had taken note of a mourning dove cooing softly in the distance, and Lily's soft sobs, as he dejectedly shuffled away and the last rays of the Easter sun sank into the black abyss of night.


	8. Chapter 7: Black Hills, White Snow

Chapter 7: Black Hills, White Snow

"Good news, Snape," Harry announced triumphantly, returning to the shack in the morning.

"You've been appointed ambassador to the magical community in Hong Kong," Snape filled in the blank.

"Now, really," the young man exhaled. "With that sort of attitude, you'd think I wasn't wanted around here."

"Go figure."

"I'm trying, really I am. I mean, bedside nurses aren't as easy to get as you might think. Especially with patients so very…"

"Famous?"

Harry sighed. "Memorably so. At any rate, what I wanted to say is that food shipments finally came in from the ministry. So we're stocked up again and you can cease lamenting about Ron's donations and muggle imports."

He looked genuinely pleased with this announcement, and the bowl of oatmeal Harry set up for him on the end table. He propped himself up as best as he could with his good arm, then made an effort to lean towards the bowl so he could get the spoon to his mouth.

"Look…do you need any…?" Harry started.

"Absolutely not," he shot back.

"I just wanted to ask if…you wanted a tray or something," he huffed. "You're as thick as a jackass sometimes."

Snape's eyes shot at him. "And you're as annoying as a horsefly. I just wish you were easier to squash."

"Now we're really getting somewhere!" Harry turned and grabbed a piece of cardboard left over from the pizza they'd shared the other night. "This will have to do."

"Do…for what?"

"For…this." He balanced it over a pillow and put it on his patient's lap, then placed the bowl on top of that. "Happy eating!"

Snape grumbled, but was obviously having an easier time getting the spoon to his mouth with the new innovation, so refrained from further complaint. Instead, he focused on praising McGonnagall. "I knew she would get it done if she kept at it," he informed Harry. "You just can't let the pressure up on those ministry people. They'll make you do everything and then demand to be paid. But by and large, she's good at sticking with things. I was sure she'd find a way to get it done…" Just then a slight look of melancholy crept in his eyes, talking about his former colleague who now hated him along with everyone else.

"Snape," Harry addressed him. "Would you like to…maybe…send her a message?"

"What have you got in your head, boy? Rocks?"

"Look, I'm sure she'd…be better about all this than you think. I don't think she ever really hated you this whole time…"

"She tried to kill me." _Yes. She had. No second thoughts. He had done his best to avoid doing her real injury in the melee; he'd even retreated from the school rather than accidentally inflict an injury on her, even though he knew he would be punished by the dark lord for doing so. But she hadn't seemed to think twice about her intentions. She had meant to kill him._

"She thought you were a death-eater at the time, and that you were about to kill me," Harry countered. "But she can't blame you altogether for the things that happened, not after she realizes…well, that you were on the good side, after all. I'm sure she'd help out if push came to shove…"

"What good side?" Snape snapped. "You think there was a good side in this war?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Alright, enough with the embittered thing already. I just mean you were fighting against Voldemort like the rest of us."

"The same side," he sneered. "All of us so very good and clever…on the same side. We became so obsessed with slaying the dragon, we bold knights became dragons ourselves. Well…I already was one. Nothing lost there."

"Nothing? Really?" the young man repeated, knowing better than to accept his sarcasm as truth by now. And he was suspecting more had been lost through the cracks of tortured time than could ever be imagined, and creating a tremendous barrier between himself and his former colleagues that could never be dismantled.

Snape shrugged. "Dumbledore told me I should have been used to it…the taste of death. But he was not the one who had to stand by and watch the Dark Lord's captives be tortured. He said make it look real. Well, it looked so real, it became… _real_. And so the gore flowed, and the spy remained silently at his post. For he had bitten the forbidden fruit already when the sheen was still on it, and it tasted so sweet to him…until the glimmer faded, and the poison was in his veins and the worms ate out his heart. So send him out to chop down the tree…and let the snake find his neck. There's commendable symmetry in that, is there not?"

He laughed a brittle laugh, then coughed. He was coughing more often lately, and Harry had once noticed a crimson stain on a sleeve when he pressed it to his lips.

"Alright, so what do you want me to say?" Harry blurted, exasperated. "It wasn't fair that they made you do all the dirty stuff on your own. Not that you didn't make some winners of mistakes yourself, yet…still, it was pretty awful sounding. But as you have been quite astute at reminding you in the past, life isn't fair."

"No, and that's exactly my point," he clarified. "Maybe we were all wrong about the Dark Lord, and he was, actually was our sweetest friend. He was so deranged beyond recovery, he made us seem easier to swallow, and lent some purpose to our little performances in the circus ring. He was a glorious distraction from our true selves. Now that you dispensed of him, we're all just…little Voldemorts, infant vipers, slithering along aimlessly, and waiting for our heads to be crushed."

Harry paused for a long moment, pondering the depth of his words, and wondering what he was seeing run through his mind. Then he queried, "Whatever happened to Clare Henley? The girl from third year who went missing not long before…Dumbledore died?"

Snape closed his eyes. "What do you think?"

"I don't know what to think," he blurted. "That's why I'm asking you. All I know is that the first day she didn't show up to class, you pulled the stuff out of her desk and threw it across the ground. You'd never shown your anger in class like that before, and you made so much noise, the students in the halls came to see if you'd gone berserk. I remember the stuff…her Rimmel lipstick she smuggled in, a butterfly notepad, her pouch mirror, a picture of her family at Land's End for the summer…You were shaking you were so mad at her…"

"I wasn't…mad at _her_ , just then."

Harry stared at him, starting to feel sick. "She was dead, wasn't she?"

"She had…no use for those things…anymore."

"Did you see her die?" Harry's voice was cracking with a sudden flood of realization. "Did you…have to…?"

"No, I didn't kill her, if that's what you're asking." Snape shook his head. "I just…couldn't save her." He lowered his eyes to the half-finished bowl of oatmeal, and set it aside on the end table. "I didn't want her to die."

"So that's why…you were mad?"

"I was upset I had to…clean out…her possessions…" He bit his lip. "I regretted not giving her longer detention sentences. Then she wouldn't have…wandered out, gotten captured." He looked at Harry. "Amazing reality when…heavier punishments from a teacher like me could have…saved a life…"

Snape remembered with bitter clarity how Bellatrix Lestrange, the death-eater assassin, had led him into the chamber where he had first realized the captive was none other than one of his own students in third year. Yes, yes…she was the one with crinkly brunette hair and bright blue eyes who had come to his class wearing an obsessive amount of makeup in breach of the dress code, and he had personally scrubbed it off her with a rag and given her extra punitive homework…and there was some other time she'd been passing notes with her latest boyfriend and got detention for it…that was the worst he could think of at that moment…

The girl recognized him and was stunned. "You…you're…" she stammered, "a…a death-eater…"

"Indeed, charming diva of Ravenclaw," he snickered, making a grand show of it. "It seems you have now found yourself under the will and at the pleasure of the Dark Lord, to whom the future belongs…"

He had not even finished his little speech before Bellatrix cast forth a torture spell on the girl. Snape was shocked by the rapidness of the move, as his student screamed and clutched her stomach. _Were they not intent upon questioning her…? Oh, no…no it was clear, the intent was…to make an example of her…and he had been brought in…to test him…_

He stood frozen, gazing on immobile as the other death-eaters joined in, like wild dogs tearing apart a cornered deer. And the eyes of Bellatrix were ever on him, waiting and wishing for him to show some sign of the turmoil writhing in his soul. But he refused to oblige, even as the girl continued to scream, knocked about on the ground by the powerful current of the dark magic.

"Stop! Please…Sir…make them stop!" She was pleading with him directly now, pleading for him to stop the torture. Death-eater or not…he was _still_ her teacher.

But he could not. He knew he could not. There was no way she could be saved; if he tried to intervene, she would still die, and he would be unmasked. So motionless he remained. But he could not stop a split-second spark from springing into his eyes when her pleas reached his ears. And Bellatrix noticed it.

Viciously, she cast another bolt from her wand at the girl…the mortal kind, assuring she would never rise again. Snape closed his eyes, wishing away the horrible world around him. Then he heard the girl's moaning grow closer, and saw Bellatrix had her haphazardly in her arms, and was bringing her towards him, like a lifeless bundle.

"When she's quite dead, bring it in to the Dark Lord." Her rouge-painted lips lifted in a sinister smirk. "A little tribute of loyalty, maybe you could call it? To prove what a good team we make together, hmm?"

Snape tightened as the pain-wracked child was shoved into his arms. The girl started fighting and clawing to get away on instinct, but she was too weak, and soon was just clinging to him and whimpering as the intense burning ravaged her body. He didn't want to look at her…he _couldn't_ look at her…not with Bellatrix standing several inches from his face, smiling her insane, sickening smile and waiting from something inside him to snap, as the other death-eaters gathered around for the entertainment.

He heard the girl scream again, burying her face in his chest automatically, and he tightened his arm's hold around her shoulders, even though his face remained a blank slate. He was feeling with her senses now, feeling her every ragged breath torn out of her lungs, and the way her heart was racing, and the climax of her fear. _She was only a child…children should never know fear of this kind…never, never…_

"I…don't want…to die…please, please…"

The ones watching her laughed, and the one holding her tightened still more. She was too far gone for anyone's help now, even if he had been able to administer it. But she started sobbing, then choking for lack of air, the color running out of her face and her hands clenching into fists. He felt her slipping, and her realization that it was over.

"What's…happening…?"

 _Death is happening, child…oh, forgive me…_

He felt a final shudder run through her as her small body gave up the struggle, and on an instinct he could no longer resist, he pulled her up fully against him, so she could feel his heartbeat close to hers. _Maybe she would forget who it was…where she was…maybe she would see her parents in her mind instead, and think she was safe…_

Still, he refused to let his face show anything, but he could not stop his hands from responding to protective instinct, and one of them shielded her face, so her last moments would not be haunted by Bellatrix grinning ghoulishly at her. He felt her tears wet under his fingers as her frame went limp, and he felt her pass through him. _That's it…go to sleep…you won't feel anything…all hurt and fear will die…oh, dear child…just sleep here, in my arms…_

Again, he met the cruelly gleeful eyes of the woman in front of him. His own hand ran down the dead girl's face, closing her eyes to never see such horror again. He felt like vomiting, but was too well trained.

 _Slytherin: Ambitious. Cunning. Proud. No room for breaking hearts or sickened stomachs…_

So he did as she had bid him, and he strode into the Dark Lord's presence, his arms full of the dead 13-year-old. And his deep, dark eyes met the inhuman, egg-like eyes that jutted out of that chalk-white, melted face. And without the least sign of emotion, he thrust her down on the great iron desk in front of him. He heard her skull crack against the corner, and felt the knot inside himself tighten, but would not show it. Instead, he focused his mind on something a great playwright once penned…for his own sanity's sake and as some small semblance of honoring the dead…

 _Fear no more the heat of the sun, nor the furious winter's rages…_

"All hail the Dark Lord," he intoned, and brought his hand to his shoulder in the form of a salute, "whose judgments shall earn him all deserving merit."

 _Thou thy worldly task hath done; home art gone and ta'en thy wages…_

He watched as Voldemort touched the child's freshly bloodied scalp and reopened her eyes.

"A shame really. She might have been desirable one day." He ran his fingers along the tear-stains on her face, and a rosy coloring rubbed off on them. "Why Severus…I do believe she still was using makeup, in defiance of your orders. Tell me, can you deduct marks posthumously at that house of yours?"

Snape stiffened as a shard of his vile words callously pierced through the softest underbelly of his heart. Did he really think…his mind worked like that?

 _Fear no more the frown of the great; thou art past the tyrant's stroke…_

He watched the Dark Lord's bloodied fingers trace across her pale lips, and felt a nauseating chill run through him.

"They should be paler yet, Severus, but you see, she was wearing a coating of lipstick. You must be getting lax in your disciplinary enforcements…"

He would give anything to have her back in his class the next day, alive and vivacious as she once was, always talking when she shouldn't…he'd even let her keep her makeup…the silly, vain little creature…

 _Care no more to clothe and to eat; to thee the reed is as the oak…_

"Her draw-backs seem to be she was too short and none-too-developed in the front. I can imagine her trying to wear high heels and a woman's brassiere at a dance in fifth year. Ah, yes…"

Yes, she would have loved those frivolous social affairs at fifth year, he knew…loved the dressing up, the boys, the attention…he would have probably had to give her detention for staying out after curfew call…and now she'd never have the chance…and his heart was bleeding…

 _Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers, come to dust…_

Voldemort was pulling open the first buttons of her blouse, and Snape was turning his seething eyes to the floor. "Yes…what a charming little fool, wearing one already. I should have found her alluring I think…perhaps even more so now. There is a certain grace to be found in death that can improve upon the female form…"

Snape felt himself going numb from suppressed rage. The monster was touching her, like an insect, like a specimen, like...a toy – a child, robbed of her precious life, sobbing to death in his arms! Give the little one peace in death at least…

 _Scepter, learning, physic must all follow this and come to dust…_

"Of course you are not one to appreciate such things, Severus…but your taste has always been somewhat compromised by setting your bar too low…"

There was a click in Snape's throat. He could not stop it.

 _Consign to thee, and come to dust…_

And at that moment, Snape would have given anything – even his very soul – for the chance to tear off that melted face himself. But instead, he inquired lowly, "May I return to work, my lord?"

The Dark Lord dismissed him with a wave of his hand, his eyes still fixated on the child's corpse, and Snape bowed. _And wished to God he would be allowed to see his "master" die again someday, slowly and wracked by pain._

And then he had rushed away to his private chamber, and buried his head in his books until nightfall, struggling to regain some sense of sanity in surroundings that were increasingly sinking into meaningless madness. Then a most unwelcome visitor arrived.

"I've never known a man to cling so hard to his books and his virginity," came a mocking voice from the entryway. It was Bellatrix.

"I do not believe…we had an appointment," he forced out. His nerves were frayed from his earlier ordeal, and could all too easily snap. He needed this time to himself to continue at the game. Or else the checkmate would surely be against him…against _everything_.

She was undeterred, peering over his shoulder at his book. "Books, books, always books, smelling of must and eaten up by moths. Ugly, smelly, dead things." Nevertheless, she started reading aloud: "Come away, you human child, to the waters and wild, with a faery, hand-in-hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand…" She made a syrupy smile. "Why, Severus, how very sweet. Who wrote it?"

He was staring in front of him, all his senses forcibly subdued. "William Butler Yeats," he stated. "It is about…the loss of innocence."

She laughed out loud at this. "Don't tell me you're in mourning?"

"I'm immune to mourning." He gazed up through the glass ceiling. "Sometimes, though…even we might…search out the stars."

"Don't," she blurted, and there was a sudden earnestness in her voice. "You are too far gone for that. They will blind you."

He stared at her now. "Why have you come here, Bellatrix?"

She quickly snapped back into her casual demeanor. "You waste away in here, all by yourself, with no companionship…"

"I prefer my own companionship, thank you."

"Hah! What stimulation it must bring you." She cocked her head sassily. "Just you…and your resistance."

"Resistance…?"

"Yes," she insisted, "to your own abilities, your greatness. I know how deep the dark runs in you. It's like tar, waiting to boil. But where is your fire?" She glared at him. "Are you still able to cast a patronus, Severus? None of us are able…anymore…"

He did not respond, turning his eyes back to his book.

"You're keeping things from poor Bella," she pouted, sitting down next to him on the bed. "We're friends, you know. You're supposed to be honest with your friends…"

Snape turned his page so hastily he tore the corner of it, biting down hard on his tongue.

She started twirling a lock of her stringy hair around her finger. "Still lusting after that mudblood witch who didn't want your bed?"

He thought his heart would stop, but it kept going, slowly, slowly…and he yearned with all the strength of his magic to silence her wagging tongue forever. He felt her hand slide onto his shoulder, and up the side of his neck.

"Don't keep trying to get away. There's no going back, or forward. Time has stopped here…there only _is_. Why not make the most of it? Hell has its pleasures." He felt her breath very, very close to his ear, and he dared not move. "Don't hold back, Severus. Don't keep fighting what you know you are. The boy with the factory smudges, who became a prince of darkness. Let it flow through you." Her hand ran up his cheek, slowly, sending a tingling sensation across his face. "You don't have to be alone in the night…I can be…anything…you want me to be…"

Snape let his eyes drift up to the glass ceiling again, and saw small creeping shadows scurrying across it, speckling the stars.

"The spiders are here, Severus," she whispered, reaching for the button of his collar. "They've come…for the girl…"

He let go the breath he hadn't known he was holding, and a sickened lump lodged itself in his throat. He knew how the Dark Lord disposed of bodies…he let the spiders in the woods have their fresh meat. So all the little ones were crawling out of the walls for the feast…

"Are we not all…spiders…" he rasped, exhausted from the emotional strain, "who have grown too large…and now must catch songbirds…in our webs…?"

"Big spiders eat little spiders," she whispered. "Our time may come…but let us…feel now…"

"I…don't…want…to… _feel_ …" His throat was drying out. So was his resistance. His hatred for her could all too easily take on another form of expression, and it terrified him. _He_ terrified him. _What…was happening?_

Her touch slithered around his neck, her body wrapping around his as he found himself easing back against the bed. The embrace felt like that of a serpent encircling its prey. It had been so long since anyone had hugged him, like Lily had that Easter Sunday so many years ago, and hers had made him feel so warm and safe it was like a breath of heaven. Now all he felt was the lure of hell sapping his strength.

 _How long had he been familiar with that lure? That gnawing thrill, the daring to let go, and fall, and fall, and fall…_

And then…she started to sing, softly, ever so softly, in his ear:

"What are those hills yonder, my love? They look as white as snow…Those are the hills of heaven, my love, you and I'll never know…"

 _Ah. He knew this song. It was old, very old…as old as the Fall of Man, he thought. It was called "The Demon Lover."_

"What are those hills, yonder, my love? They look as black as night…Those are the hills of hellfire, my love…you and I will be nigh…"

He dared to breathe, and the pungent scent of perfume infected his nostrils. He hated it, and he wanted it, and he wanted to be sick, and he wanted pleasure to ease pain, and he wanted death to ease horror…he wanted a hug…

"Severus…" She leaned closer against his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, "Sevy…"

He snapped his gaze to her, and there next to him on the bed, with her red hair curling over her shoulder, was Lily. He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, and her hands caressing him, and his own started to shake. He wanted to touch her…oh, he wanted to hold her…and to cry…he wanted it to be real so, so badly…he felt weakened, and bruised, he wanted to be held…he wanted to let himself pretend…he wanted to stop hurting…

But when he looked into those green eyes he had loved so dearly as a child, he found no warmth in them. No. No. There was no Lily in them. Bellatrix, the antithesis of everything Lily had been, was a skilled temptress and conjurer, but here was her fatal flaw: she could replicate the body, but not the soul.

And that was her reasoning for doing this. She wished to debase everything Lily had been to him into nothing more than a sexual fetish, to twist his memories, to pull upon his baser instincts, to warp everything that was sacred to him, to sever the last twine of his humanity…to make him give in. _To make him let go._

 _No. No. No. Lily…_

 _"Harking is bonny, and there lives my love…"_

 _Lily._

 _"My love lies on her, and cannot remove…"_

 _Lily._

 _"It cannot remove, for all that I have done…and I never will forget my love…"_

Like lightening, he shot up, fury blazing in his eyes, and like the fire of the red sun, heart bleeding before the cleansing of the storm, his power burst forth from him, pushing back the illusion, and casting Bellatrix across the room against the wall.

At first she just lay against the wall, looking stunned by the impact of the rejection. Then she started laughing maniacally.

Snape was hovering over her at his full height, his eyes sparkling dangerously, and his wand drawn menacingly. "Don't…ever…do that…again." His voice was surprisingly calm, but electricity was running through it. "The day you do…you die."

Then another sensation coursed through him. Looking at her laughing insanely on the floor, he felt…dare he think it, was it pity? Was it caused by seeing a glimpse of what he could have been, without the faintest melody to cling to in the silence?

"What were you…before…?" He could not help but wonder if there was ever a time when she was something whole, as opposed to a shimmering body encasing a shattered mind. And in spite of himself, he found himself offering his hand to help her up. It was suddenly harder to judge, seeing that the line between them was so painfully thin.

She looked at him in shock, and her laughter faded. "I suppose...I was beautiful…" Her voice was mouse-like, eerily so, as she carefully accepted his arm up. "But it doesn't matter now. I told you, time has stopped here. The door locks on the inside, you see. We live in the dark hills…why torture ourselves with memories…or thoughts of the snow?" Then her face contorted and she screamed, "I hate you! I hate you for talking about… _before_! Don't ever say it again, never, never, never!" She seized his book from the bed and flung it across the room at him. "I hate your books! They're evil books, you make them evil when you touch them, don't think they're so good! Everything is evil here! Your mark is as dark as mine! They'll burn them all up when you're dead!" Then she pressed her knuckles hard against her mouth, and fled his room.

Snape did not very well know what happened after that, as he lay motionless on his bed, rattled inside seemingly beyond repair, and the hours all melting together, thickening, like mucus building up inside the lungs and preventing breath. But somehow, somewhere, in his grinding moments, he found himself in a dream with his eyes still open.

It was very simple. It was just being a little boy again. And Lily, still a little girl in braids, coming and saying "Get up, Sevy! We're having pancakes for breakfast! Get up, it was all just a dream." And he smiled at her, and she gave him a hug.

And that, he surmised, was the closest thing to the stars or the snow or the clouds of heaven he would ever be able to imagine.


	9. Chapter 8: A Death Eater's Tale

Chapter 8: A Death Eater's Tale

"You seem very non-communicative today," Snape noted after 15 minutes of silently eating lunch with Harry.

"What is it to you?" the boy snapped irritably. "You complain when I talk, anyway."

Snape shrugged. "I am simply getting the rather uncomfortable vibe that you have a question you're debating whether or not to ask me. Your inquisitional skills are still being honed, it seems."

Harry looked down. "Maybe I don't want to know the answer."

"Maybe I would refuse to tell you the answer even if you asked it," he shot back. "But then you'll never know unless you decide to breach the subject."

Harry breathed out. "Did you…enjoy it?"

"What?"

"Being a death-eater, when you really were one? Did you…act the way they act, take pleasure in the things they did?"

"You're asking if I was a sadist."

"You can put it that way."

"I suppose that would be a logical thing for you to surmise, easy enough for you to believe…"

"Maybe once, I would have let myself believe it," Harry admitted. "I would have believed you capable of any horrible thing, I think. But…it's not as easy now."

"Why? Have I changed so very much in my benevolent attitude towards humanity…?"

"That's not the point," Harry blurted. "Whatever darkness is in you, I don't…I can't believe it's to that level."

Snape shifted a little. "And why not?"

" _Because_." The emphasis in Harry's voice let them both knew what he meant.

"She broke off our friendship, remember. Maybe the reason was…she found out that…"

"No, no." Harry shook his head. "I would know if…"

"You would?"

"Yes. I shared the dark lord's mind, didn't I? I should know…how deep such things go. And I just don't…"

"When you were young, and I looked upon your scar, it burned you." Snape eyed him intensely. "It burned you badly, Potter."

Harry met Snape's eyes and searched them for a moment. "They used to scare me," he mumbled. "They haven't for a long time, though."

"But damn you, Potter, if you can read my mind," he growled.

"I don't want to read your mind," he retorted. "I want to read…" He stopped himself, but they both knew what he was going to say anyway. "Can't…can't you just tell me?"

"You would not believe me if I did."

"Yes, I think I would."

Snape looked at him again and let his eyes cut into his scar a little, wondering if he would flinch or frighten. He didn't. The man swallowed. "I had my fill of blood, Potter…it filled up my eyes, my mind…" He closed his eyes now. "I learned to hate the sight of it, the stench of it. Long before your mother's death, I had lost my keenness for the chessboard I was playing on. She was…just my checkmate."

"When did it start, Snape? When did you shed your first blood?"

He blinked. "I was 19 when I went on my first raid, to kill or capture a wizard most outspoken in the opposition, who was hiding away in the muggle world. Before that, I had preferred to serve the cause in more….intellectual ways."

"You thought being a death-eater was going to be an intellectual pursuit?"

"You know nothing, Potter, if you do not know the nature of their recruiting. It was meant to be a redefinition of order…something grandly managed and finely tuned, using the power of all forms of magic to create a shield of strength that rivaled the workings of the universe itself. To be welcomed into this new regime, this new power, based upon merit, was a satisfaction it may be hard for you to comprehend." He exhaled. "I avoided what I did not wish to see. My role, I believed, was that of a counselor, a preparer of plans, and gatherer of information. And yes, I did prepare potions for him. Though I did not believe…they would be used to kill. To extract information from uncooperative prisoners, yes, I admit to that. But I tested them on myself first. I did not wish to serve as executioner."

"Because you thought it below your intellect?" Harry sneered.

"Because I did not…wish it." Snape closed his eyes, and there was a sincere sorrow in his voice Harry could not deny.

"Well…then what happened during the raid?"

Snape eyed him and answered simply, "People died."

"At your hand?"

"In my sight. I told you, I was not…executioner. And there were others eager enough to fulfill that obligation. I was brought along by the dark lord to help him…oversee. It was supposed to be…an honor."

Snape remembered how the horror had unfolded, how after the wizard had been struck down, his wife and four children were butchered in horrible fashion. He remembered how hard she had begged for the lives of her children, clinging to the edge of Voldemort's robes even as her throat was being cut. She did not stop until her windpipe was severed. He remembered how the eldest daughter, who could not have been more than 12, had been too shocked by her parents' murders to move, and found the same knife drive through her heart, dying where she stood.

He remembered the way the other death-eaters gleefully struck down her two younger brothers with their wands. He remembered how Voldemort had the bodies piled up on top of each other in the corner, and how the young little girl, perhaps 6 or 7, had been made to watch. She had climbed atop a cabinet to hide, but revealed herself by screaming.

The young Snape, sickened by the carnage he had already witnessed, had asked Voldemort for the child as his personal property if he could get her to come down. And the dark lord had let him coax that terrified child down under the promise that no harm would come to her. The girl seemed disbelieving, but came down anyway, very slowly, like a cat trying to get out of a tree. She had very little choice, and there was some part of her that seemed resigned to the sudden cruelty of fate.

When she saw the pile of bodies up close, she started sobbing convulsively. Snape didn't remember how it all unfolded in the lurid fog of his own memories, but his intent had been to scoop up the child and cover her eyes on instinct. But before he could do anything, the dark lord's voice rang out, and one of the death-eaters was suddenly there, slashing the child through with his blade over and over again.

Snape had started forward, but the dark lord seized his arm. "She's muggle, Severus," he stated calmly. "All of them, save the wizard himself were muggle. And muggles for which you and I both hold a hatred, are best utilized in teaching death-eaters the art of death. But I have every intent of keeping my word; you may have the corpse for whatever experimentation you wish."

Snape's throat had dried as he watched the mortally wounded child tossed on the pile of bodies…and saw her little hand reach out instinctively and clutch at her dead mother's sleeve.

"No…experimentation," Snape had rasped.

"As you wish," Voldemort conceded, and cried out, "Incindio!"

A fire sprang up among the bodies as the other death-eaters spread out across the house, smashing and destroying. He heard the sound of a whimpering dog. Nothing would be spared here obviously. But now alone, standing in front of the fire while the dark lord strode up the stairs to search the dead man's office, Severus found himself, with madness flickering in his eyes, yanking the dying child across the floor, out of the flames.

Blood was hemorrhaging from her many wounds, gushing harder with each tortured breath. But even now, she managed words.

"Mama…I want my mama….let me go back to mama…"

"You'll see your mama soon…very soon…" His voice was shattered as he randomly stroked the burnt side of her face. Charred flakes of skin started to rub off and caused Snape to stop. He didn't know what to do as her hand kept seeking her mother's sleeve. She needed something to cling onto to get her through. So Snape crawled over and snatched up the rag doll she had dropped from atop the cabinet.

"Here…here, baby…" he addressed her, not in the trained voice had had assumed in the wizarding world, but in his own rough Cokeworth accent, and there was a tragic tenderness in it. "You hold on, like this…good girl…your mamma is waiting for you…she couldn't go on without her girl…you can go to her…go on…"

He had let his hand fall on her rising and sinking stomach, until it stopped. Then, with the scent of burnt flesh stinging his nostrils, he had wandered out of the door somehow…and vomited. The whole house was going up in flames now, and it seemed as if the whole world would be consumed in the inferno.

For the next two years, the dark lord put further pressure on Snape, seeming to enjoy forcing him to watch things which he knew turned his stomach inside out. He even purposely overdosed a prisoner on one of Snape's potions, resulting in death. The young man began to pick up on the message. Voldemort was saying that Snape was no better than any of them, no cleaner than them, and he would have to get used to the stench of blood if he wished to hold his pride of place.

And Snape began to sense that Voldemort was becoming slightly wary of that pride of place. This man who would be lord of the world was extremely suspicious of all who surrounded him. That a proud young man with a school record that proved him to be a protégé would dare to challenge his master so often when in council, that he would hold to his own intellectualist notions on conducting a war, and executing the dark arts with rationality as opposed to at random, rankled Voldemort. So the more he could make Snape squirm…the more he seemed to hope it would knock him down to size.

One day, Snape was brought in for the interrogation of a new "prisoner." It was a student from Hogwarts, an addle-headed Hufflepuff no less, who had gotten lost in the woods and accidentally stumbled upon the abandoned warehouse Voldemort had been using as headquarters. Snape immediately insisted that the questioning was purposeless, that the little brat was from the single stupidest house in the school, infamous for clumsiness and wandering into trouble by accident, and he was not an asset to the cause in any way.

But Voldemort had not listened. Voldemort had wanted him…interrogated. But this time, at least, he had the courtesy of dismissing Snape from the proceedings. Severus decided it best to go out in the woods himself, to hunt for some herbs needed for potions brewing, and take his mind off of…whatever was happening. He didn't want to know, even though he couldn't help but know. He just wanted to turn a blind eye, as he had managed enough times before.

But once outside, Snape heard a muffled moan and the zapping of wands coming from the adjacent underground cellar. Then he saw his fellow death-eaters walk out, cackling to themselves. He felt his skin prickle in the evening air. He thought about turning away. He was not keen on any involvement in another scene. But…he had to see what had happened…

Climbing down the cellar stairs, he lit his wand so he could see in the dark. And then he came upon the child, slumped against the hallway wall. He was staring blankly at his hands, all covered in blood, with his shirt stained red and a crimson puddle having formed next to him.

Snape found himself sickened at the specter of the child, lost in his own terror-stricken world, too far gone to even respond. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He took a step nearer on instinct, and the sound of his boots on the concrete made the boy finally snap out of his haze and shrink back against the wall, like a small animal approached by a hunter, closing in for the kill.

Their eyes met, and the air felt frozen over. The scent of blood tinged the cold. The boy was shaking like a leaf now. Snape knew the child in front of him was sentenced to die. It was the dark lord's will. But…but surely…he didn't have to suffer…this much...it could be hurried along…that would be legitimate, would it not?

He drew out his wand. The boy's eyes followed the swing of it, and dimmed in despair. He opened his mouth, as if to try and say something, probably responding to an urge to plead, or possibly scream, but no sound came out, only a mouthful of blood, trickling slowly over his lower lip. He rubbed it away slowly, pathetically, with his sleeve, and let his arm linger there over his lips. But his frightened eyes were still on Severus, just waiting for another surge of pain.

The death-eater stood, and his wand stood, primed to kill. To kill, to kill, always to kill, and draw strength from fresh meat, like wild cats that strike down deer and wild dogs that clean the bones white. He was trained in this way of life, he had embraced it, and it was his lone guide, his master…

Wait. _Master…?_

Something inarticulate took hold of him, something primal, something that swelled his chest with sheer disgust. As much as he had hated his muggle father and his muggle town, it did not change the fact that he was a midlander, bred and born. The free shires of England, with their history of outlaws in their forests and machinery smashed by General Ludd, had been his home. He had walked the common land, and pathways that rambled over the hills. Even the stench of the factory and his father's alcohol-stained breath could not prevent the free air from entering his nostrils. The history was too rich for him to swallow slavery. Not now. Not ever.

So it was that boots tromped across the floor, and the wand lowered, until its tip was touching the wound torn across the child's belly. And a voice, one choked with a surge of inner rebellion, spoke an incantation of healing, not death. Instead of cold electricity, there was a glowing aura and a sealing of that which had been ripped apart. Breath and blood came flowing back into the right channels, and the child inhaled shakily. Then he clutched at his shirt, and saw to his astonishment that the wound had vanished.

Snape decided it would be best to lift the dumbstruck boy up off the stairs to see if he could stand up straight. But then he unexpectedly found himself being hugged by the sobbing 11-year-old, who threw his arms around his neck and buried his tear-streaked face in his shoulder.

The young man tightened, unsure how to respond. "Let go, brat," he ordered in what he hoped was his most chilling death-eater voice.

The trembling child did not obey, but only nuzzled his head deeper into his shoulder. Snape leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling a pang of his own traumatic childhood memories. This little boy, who had just been terrorized and lost a far amount of blood, still staining his clothes, was so scared he was embracing a branded death-eater for comfort, who, for all he knew, might turn on him any second and kill him.

Snape did not know how long he had let him stay there against him, but he somehow could not bring himself to tear the boy off of him. It had been so long since he felt human touch in this way, and it left him with a strange, uneasy feeling. He was supposed to be untouchable, untrustable…a spy, a monster…something to be hated and feared and destroyed, if it could be managed, like a poisonous spider caught in a jar, like a powerful, deadly, despised disease. People never embrace disease.

But all the same, as his sobbing subsided, the child fell asleep on his shoulder anyway, worn out by the ordeal.

 _Hufflepuffs_ , Severus thought. _Always so low energy…_

Still he found himself slightly soothed by the sound of his breathing and the warmth of his body against him. He just…couldn't bear to think of him dead. He couldn't explain that, he just…couldn't. Snape had thought he would quite like being beyond the realm of touch and trust. It would be his fortress, isolated and proud, with intimidating towers piercing a dark sky. But now he frightened himself with the realization that having something so small and helpless completely at his mercy was not bringing out a death-eater's blood lust, but a long-concealed protective instinct.

 _And perhaps it was automatic that one human being, in fear and suffering, should reach out to another for comfort…perhaps sensing some other shared element of fear and suffering, no matter how deeply buried…no matter what mark that other being bore, no matter what darkness was supposed to linger over him…it was as vital as the need to believe in the unseen ability of air to fill up the lungs…_

After a long time, he felt the boy stir against him, then stiffen, undoubtedly trying figure out where he was and what had happened. Snape decided he had to handle the situation with tact, lest he set the boy off into a breakdown. Besides…he realized the child's voice was gone. He had been that way once for five long hours after his father beat him. Lily had talked to him for as long as necessary to open him up again. It had saved him from permanent speechlessness. He needed to get the little urchin… _talking_ …

"I know what you want," he remarked, in a much gentler tone now. "You want your mother, don't you?"

The little boy hesitated, then nodded.

"That's not…unnatural under the circumstances." He touched the child's arm, with the intent of trying to carefully pry it loose from his neck, and the boy flinched. "None of that, now…I'm not…going to harm you. If I was going to, I would have done it…back there. I'm not going to now. Just…be calm." He exhaled, realizing how weak the assurance was, and wanting to take his mind off of it. "Besides, Christmas is coming, so you should be going on leave to see your mother…very soon." He let his hand drift to the boy's shoulder and slowly massaged some of the tension out of it. It seemed to have the desired effect, as the boy's hold eased a little. "So…do you know what you might get her for Christmas?"

 _Miserable small talk, he knew, but he saw no alternative…._

The child swallowed, and shook his head a little, but did not answer.

"You really should plan ahead on these things, boy," Snape offered, just trying to get him to form words, as the red-haired girl had once done with him. "You have no idea at all?"

The boy stalled, then finally tried opening his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Take…your time," he instructed. "Just…let the sounds form naturally. Don't force them out." That's how he had done it back then…letting them slowly reemerge in his throat.

"I…I dunno," the boy choked. "Chocolates, I guess."

Snape couldn't help but feel the smallest lift at the corners of his mouth. "Sounds rational," he responded crisply, and he felt the boy nod. "So what does your mother look like?"

He shifted a little in his arms. "Br…brown hair…blue eyes." The little Hufflepuff swallowed. "What…what does your mum look like?"

Snape froze, totally taken aback. "Dead," he spat, wanting very much for it to sound unimportant to him, that he was contemptuous of the question.

But the boy shocked him by responding to this declaration in the form of tenderly tightening his hold on Severus. He felt his saliva thicken in his throat.

"To my kind, death is an art," he rattled off, but the words were empty. "We do not love; we do not grieve…" He shut his eyes tight, and then rasped, "Child, let me go."

Slowly, the boy did as he was told, but he still was too weak to do anything but lean up against Snape for support.

Severus sighed. "I…I'm going to go try and find you something…to drink. You need fluids…"

"D…d…don't…go…" the boy pleaded, sinking back down against the wall, shuddering as his gaze once again fell on the blood staining the floor.

"I'll be back, brat," he assured huskily, standing up and turning down the dank hallway. He knew that somewhere down there, the death-eaters had their recreation room – yes, recreation was still to be had by them in what was a chamber of torture for their victims. Inside, he found a small ice box and started to scour through the contents.

"Muggle food…?" he queried to himself, knowing that the dark lord had forbidden such imports. Shrugging, he decided to make the most of it. There were several bottles of flavored water, lemon, raspberry, and strawberry. In addition, there was a box of assorted snack cakes and a bag of cheese crackers shaped like goldfish. Snape decided he might as well just grab it all and figure it out later.

Returning to the hall, he found the boy partially drifting off to sleep, and Snape had to rouse him with a shake. He pulled him up on his feet.

"Here," he offered, unscrewing the lid of the lemon water. "Rinse with this."

He put the bottle to the boy's lips, and the child winced.

"Go on, you little fool, it's only water. It'll help." He tilted it up and let the water trickle into his mouth. "Now don't swallow it; spit it out. I'll give you some to drink afterwards. Just spit out over there by the grate."

Snape held the boy round the middle as the child leaned over and let the water dribble out of his mouth. "Can't you spit, boy?" Snape snapped impatiently.

The boy made an effort, but was so weak he could barely manage.

"Alright…it's alright, don't…choke yourself."

When he'd finished, Snape settled him against his shoulder and again brought the bottle to his lips. The boy responded eagerly, like a small rodent, sucking at the bottle happily, although also measuring his swallows. The blood loss had obviously made him quite thirsty.

"Easy," Snape cautioned him. "Don't kill yourself after all this trouble, you little monster."

When he took the bottle away, Snape proceeded to use the water to soak a paper towel and clean off the child's bloodied face and hands. Again their eyes met, and he saw a glimmer of wordless gratitude staring back at him. He suddenly felt very small himself.

"Want…to try and eat something?" he queried awkwardly. "There were…snack cakes in that ice box, believe it or not."

The boy smiled just a little, and Severus took that to mean 'yes.' So he helped undo the plastic wrapping which enabled him to rapidly down one of the chocolate cream rolls, followed by one of the strawberry cream ones. Snape himself was feeling wrung out enough to require some energy, so he too took advantage of the bounty. He had no idea that the lower ranks were getting better food rations then he was, but he had to admit the snack cakes were the best thing he'd eaten in a while.

Then the boy started delving into the cheese crackers. It seemed as if he had rather forgotten his previous woes, at least for the time being, surrounded by some basic creature comforts.

"You do eat a lot, don't you?" Snape sighed.

The boy paused and looked at him, as if a bit concerned he might have gotten on his wrong side and had just jeopardized his future.

"Don't look at me like that, urchin," he huffed. "Really, I have no intention of…"

Just then Snape heard footsteps from the outside, and shoved the boy behind him. He knew who it was…he could feel it in the air. It was _him_. Out for his evening walk, it seemed. Oh, was there nothing that could be hid from him…

Snape had the wherewithal to snatch up his wand and mutter his own created spell that transported them both to the back exit of the cellar. Climbing out, Snape snatched the boy's arm and hurriedly dragged him into the nearby woods. He had to get him out and fast. But the woods were dark, and the child was obviously more than capable of losing himself. If he did it again, they would both be done for.

An idea came to him, but he almost instantly dismissed it as insane. No death-eater could do what he had in mind. It had been stated over and over again. No death-eater could have pure enough thoughts to cling to. It was impossible…

And yet he could not help but remember back, back when he was 13, and first showed his patronus to Lily. Of course, wanting to be hardcore, he had made the thing come out of his wand like a bat with little red eyes, and it flew around like one.

"Sev, that thing is creepy!" she'd complained with a shiver.

"No, it's not," he'd protested. "It's just…epic."

"Looks like you're trying to haunt a house or something," she'd countered.

"Well, what's yours then?" he had challenged.

And she took no time in demonstrating her own creation. "Well?" she has asked excitedly as the delicate doe had emerged from her wand.

"It's…cute," he had offered, rather uncertainly.

She then had huffed and crossed her arms.

"Oh, come on, Lils! Look, its fine. Really. It's even nice…for what it is."

She sighed, relenting reluctantly. "I suppose yours is nice for what it is too." Then she'd grabbed him by the hand. "Now that that's all settled, I'm starving, and there's this pumpkin spice cream roll and pumpkin spice cream tea special at the cafeteria I've been dying to try! Let's go together."

They had then walked off and gotten into a deliciously zany conversation about how everything possible had been laden with pumpkin flavoring for the autumn menu board, including pumpkin flavored pumpkin…and Lily had laughed her infectious laugh…

And 21-year-old Severus Snape the death-eater, infusing himself with this profoundly simply memory, saw a figure take shape from his wand. He blinked as he saw…it was a doe.

"You follow that deer, boy," Snape ordered briskly, kneeling down and shaking him by the shoulders. "Follow wherever she leads. She'll get you through the woods and back to the school grounds."

The Hufflepuff stared at him. "What…what are they going to do to you when…?"

"Never you mind, brat," he cut him off. "I'm more than capable of handling it for myself. Now scram, you little mite!"

Impulsively, the child crushed Severus in another random embrace, then turned and followed the shining silver deer.

Snape watched him disappear behind the trees, and then muttered a spell to erase his memory of all that had transpired between them. This act should have been simple enough and yet he found himself chilled to the bone as the words left his mouth. For he was severing a newborn bond he had just reforged between himself and humanity, one that revealed him not as a monster, but a man. A very young man, in fact, whose rebellion could never be known.

But the trees seemed to have had eyes, and ears, and memories…

When Voldemort declared to his assembled minions that a prisoner had escaped, Severus knew he had been found out. He knew by the look in his would-be master's eyes. And he knew there was no escaping what was coming. Still, he had tried to fall back upon his own rank, for surely he would not be treated as a common member of the rank and file. He was the Half-Blood Prince, a protégé, a counselor of the one who would not die…

But his illusions of grandeur were shattered, and for the first of many times to come, he felt Voldemort's dark tortures course through his body. He was being punished like a disobedient dog, and his pride throbbed as a lump in his throat he was forced to swallow back. He writhed on the ground, tightening and releasing as the pain swam through his veins.

For many years afterwards, he would become increasingly accustomed to bearing up against the Dark Lord's wrath. He even created a spell to numb the pain when it became too intense. But he rarely used it. He could not bring himself to ease his own suffering when he had been unable to ease the suffering of so many other victims, too many of them women and children, tortured to death while he was forced to look on, a placid expression forcefully smeared like makeup over his face.

Besides…he felt he deserved it, without restraint.

Sometimes, half delirious, he would speak to the pain and encourage it to ravage him for all the horrors he had participated in, and somehow burn the evil out of him. Sometimes he asked it to go extra hard on him to wear itself out so the next child Voldemort's magic sucked the life out of would not know its full force. Sometimes he asked it to wrap around his blackened heart, like a snake, and take a bite out of it, so death would come at last. Sometimes he asked that the veil of time might be split, and any pain his Lily might have known in dying might be generated into his own body instead. Sometimes, he simply blacked out and found himself mercifully unaware of the worse of it.

But on this day, this first day of the torture and the pain, Severus had remained awake, and unaccustomed to the intensity, he had cried out. It was the first and last time he would give his cruel master the satisfaction. But what was worse than the physical contractions was the taunting, as the dark lord made sport of him in the midst of his torture.

"The great Severus Snape, the prince of the night," he spat. "Prince of half-cup empty, prince of tainted blood." He smirked, and cast a spell to fill his goblet with some substance. "I know what the other half is, Severus. Kitten's cream." He threw the contents of sour milk in the proud young man's face.

Snape, still crumpled on the floor, hissed, "I am no…milk sop, my lord! You…send me…send me, anywhere! I will do whatever task there is to do, without question. I will show you, my lord…I am…no coward…"

"Are you loyal to me, Severus? Or to your own sentiments and ambitions?"

"I am branded in your service, my lord," he panted, just wanting the pain to end now. "The mark will never leave me. It is my armor against weakness…"

"Then mind you wear it well on the mission on which you must go," Voldemort instructed, placidly. "You will enjoy this; spying has always suited you, Severus."

Snape had no idea at the time that the mission would lead him to uncover the news of a prophecy, of a newborn child, and all that proceeded forth from it. He had no idea that the words that came forth from his lips would be the death sentence of James and Lily Potter. He had no idea that, when he later tried to secure at least Lily's life by making Voldemort think that his interest in her was carnal and out of revenge against her husband, he would be met by mockery and the promise that if the redhead mudblood lived, they would all share a taste of her.

He had no idea that it would send him running, running to Dumbledore and pleading that he would give anything, anything at all, if the headmaster could do something, anything to save them. All of them.

But in the end it was all in vain. The blood would always be on his hands, as red as her hair, and he would bear the dark mark in his eyes until they saw no more.


	10. Chapter 9: Mouse Trap

Chapter 9: Mouse Trap

When Harry entered the next day, he was carrying a box, and Severus was instantly set on edge by the manifold possibilities contained within.

"Please spare me the unnecessary anxiety and tell me that does not contain more muggle take-out delicacies involving sauce, cheese and flat bread, inundated with crystallized tropical fruit?"

"Oh, come on, Snape," Harry sighed. "The whole world has a love affair with pizza!"

"A secondary proof that it is not substantially nutritious enough to be considered a bone fide meal."

"Well, anyway, you can cool it, because this isn't a pizza box."

"What is it, then?"

Harry held it aloft, revealing the colorful label which read "Mouse Trap."

"Considering the fact that I spend more hours in here per day than you do, I think it only fair to try and dispel your fantasies about mass rodent invasion hereabouts."

"It's a board game," Harry clarified. "I found it when cleaning out some of the rubble from the Gryffindor recreation room. It was a game night favorite."

"I admittedly never felt the need to indulge."

"Well, it's one of those things everyone should do at least once before…"

"They die?"

"I certainly can't see how they'd manage it after the fact." Harry crouched down and started to take the pieces out of the box. "What color mouse do you want, Snape?"

"No," he shot him down simply.

"Oh, come on, it'll be fun!"

"Since when have I been known to sacrifice my dignity by jumping on the unsteady bandwagon of 'fun'?"

"Then you need it even more than I do!"

"What I need now is breakfast," he grumbled.

"Well, I got a couple of nice, sweet cinnamon buns for you," Harry stated, pulling a paper bag out from under his coat and dangling it in front of him. Snape reached for it, but Harry snatched it away. "For after we finish the game, that is."

"You're all heart," he growled.

"I know," he agreed.

"Look, as far as I'm aware, you're supposed to be interrogating me or what have you," Snape reminded him. "This…this is just cruel and unusual punishment!"

"I just did interrogate you, like, yesterday," Harry retorted. "And…it was kind of depressing. I just need a little break."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I just…need to air out my head. So we have a pink mouse, a blue mouse, an orange mouse, and grinning green hippo…"

"I maintain my conscientious objection."

"Look, I'd love to provide a mouse in the Slytherin colors for you, but they just don't come in your average box set."

"If you're so damned set upon this infantile gaming fest, why not recruit the Weasley barnacle and Little Miss Show-Off instead of inflicting your retrogressive state on me?"

Harry didn't respond for a moment, seeming to become unduly invested in setting up the marble works aspect of the game. When he finally did, he mumbled, "They're not…feeling too well."

"And I'm feeling well?"

"No…it's just different."

"What, did they finally hex each other with the swine flu or something?"

Harry squinted. "Didn't I tell you? I guess…I forgot. Fred Weasley's dead. So are Hermione's parents. It was…you know."

Snape nodded solemnly. "I…regret they have had to suffer personal loss. Especially the boy."

"You've always hated the Weasleys," Harry scoffed. "I can't imagine you feeling too bad about it."

"I have not…hated my students," he retorted in his own defense. "I have not liked them, but I have hated very few people, believe it or not. True hatred is too potent a thing to bandy about haphazardly, so I have extended it sparingly. The noteworthy exceptions have been the dark lord, your father…and mine."

"You mean I never made it to the list?"

"Not…quite."

"I feel positively left out."

"Don't take it too hard; it was the slimmest of margins."

Harry chuckled as he lifted the lever and sent a marble down the newly constructed slot.

There was something about Harry's sudden interest in the silly plaything that made Snape feel rather…sorry for him, in spite of himself. The young man hadn't had much of a childhood after all, and at age 17, had gone through more than most people go through in their whole lifetimes. As a matter of fact, Snape had much the same story in his teen years. But he didn't recall seeking release via muggle board games…

"Did it ever occur to you that I may not be quite the type to engage in pastimes involving multi-colored cheese-snatchers doomed to be snapped up by a plastic trap depending on the roll of the dice and the speed of marbles?"

"Well, there is a bit of a method to it, actually," Harry insisted, digging the instructions out of the box. "Besides…you already have such a low opinion of my abilities in general, it doesn't matter. Out there, though, everybody thinks I'm a hero, so I can't be caught dead doing anything less than…well…hero-like. It gets to be a strain, you know?"

"My personal experience has only led me to be seen as villain, so I can't really relate."

"Well, almost like the other side of the same coin. We're trapped in role expectations."

Snape squinted. "And trapping plastic rainbow mice is supposed to be a liberating exercise?"

"Yeah, exactly! We're defying convention."

"And sanity."

"Come on, just pick a mouse, any mouse!"

Snape exhaled, exasperated. "Just…random pick."

Harry smirked. "I think…I'll give you pink."

Snape scowled. "I do believe…you're trying to get onto that list…after all."

Nevertheless, they played the game…well, at least, Harry played the game, with Snape serving as a stand-in under duress, just watching dismally as the boy made all the moves on the board for both of them until his pink mouse got eaten by the grinning hippo, to Harry's great satisfaction.

"Getting you out of that crib on Halloween was a sorry decision, and my late mouse would agree," Snape snarked automatically, then seemed to second-guess his words.

Harry blinked, astonished that he would mention that night as part of their play. His teacher looked equally astonished he had let it slip out. But now the boy's curiosity was piqued. "Were you the one who got me out of the house that night? You know, after you…found me there?"

"Might have done." He shrugged. "I don't recall."

"Seriously?"

"Look, first point, contrary to your preconceived notions, the world does not revolve around you," Snape stated. "Second point, I…wasn't in a particularly clear frame of mind. After discovering…what had happened, it all becomes rather disconnected. There are images that come back to me at times, but they are not properly threaded together."

"What's the next thing you remember clearly?"

"Waking up," he mumbled, "and suffering from a terrific headache."

"Had you been drinking before…?"

"Damn your eyes, no!" he shot back, and Harry realized he probably shouldn't have brought alcohol into the conversation. "It was…the result of a potion, evidently. I must have tried to kill myself before Dumbledore had me brought around for more punishment. He'd bought my soul by then; he wasn't going to just let it slip away from him." He sighed. "I tried once before to end myself when I was still a boy. And I swore to myself to try once more after war's end, if something else didn't get to me first. I had my hopes it would be third time lucky. But it seems someone is always trying to intervene on my behalf for their own ends." He gave Harry an indicative glare.

"Hey, fortunes of war," Harry shrugged.

"Yes, so I've heard," Snape responded. "You'd probably be tickled pink if you thought I could possibly survive this venom coursing through my bloodstream so you could have had the pleasure of personally depositing me in Azkaban."

Harry's rather cocky expression softened a little. "I…I wouldn't have let them send you to Azkaban, Snape."

"You seriously think you could have stopped them?" Snape shot back. "What do you think, you run the world, my hero?"

"I just meant…I'd do whatever I could to help out…with my influence…"

"A lot of good that would do," he snorted.

"Look, I do have something of a fan club at this point."

"Ode to joy."

"I'm just saying I did sort of achieve some notoriety here, and couldn't have really made it that far without…you know…help."

"True that," Snape acknowledged, rolling his eyes. "But that does not detract from the fact that a certain headmaster got himself decidedly…electrocuted."

"Well, yeah, but per his own request," Harry noted. "And he was kind of like poisoned."

"Try and explain that to a board of inquiry," Snape challenged, then added more softly, "Try and explain that to your own conscience. It doesn't work, believe me. I've tried."

Harry exhaled. "I guess…yeah, I see your point. You probably would have been toast."

"From the mouths of babes."

"Who are you calling a babe?!"

"I'll call you whatever I please until my dying breath, maggot." Snape shook his head. "At any rate, this is no longer my world. You, at least, got the satisfaction of destroying the dark lord. What matters life and freedom when time and the chance for glory have passed by?"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better," Harry began, "I used one of your spells in the last battle."

"You…did?" he queried dubiously.

"Yeah. So in a way, you kind of did kill him. Just…through me."

"Which spell was it you used?"

"The one you used on Professor Lockhart that day in wand dueling class."

"Oh, for the love of…" Snape huffed.

"Hey, for once you had the entire male population of Hogwarts rooting for you when you knocked that obnoxious braggart flat."

"Just what I always wanted…your generous approval." Snape widened his eyes sarcastically.

"Well, it proved to be memorable, that's all."

"Did I ever mention that I don't really approve of your pirating my original spells?"

"I seem to recall you….getting a bit riled over it in the past," Harry admitted.

"'Fight back, fight back!'" Snape mimicked Harry in a weird high-pitched imitation. "That was just…genius."

"Well, I thought you were like…totally evil at the time, and top death-eater!"

"All the more reason why launching my own spells at me and challenging me to crack your skull open with a single blast was not particularly sound logic."

"But I was mad! And I really, really had it out for you at that point."

"Join the salon. But therein lies one of the fundamental differences between us, Potter: I am capable of control over my emotions, while you are quite obviously not."

"Well…you've shown some emotion too, recently."

"Your point?" he snapped. "I had just been mauled by a giant snake, and had to find myself looking at you with that inanely stupid expression on your face, knowing that the future of the world rested upon your slim, slumped shoulders. Anyone would get emotional over that."

"Hey, my shoulders aren't slumped!"

"You've always had abysmal posture…"

"Okay, okay, back to square one," Harry back-tracked. "Look, the reason I was a little…blanked out back there was because…watching giant snakes attacking their victims can be intense."

"You don't say?"

Harry sighed. "Yeah. Besides…whatever else I thought you were, you were still my…teacher, or at least you used to be, and…I couldn't just forget that when I saw you getting hurt." He paused for a spell. "You know, back there, I never would have thought we'd be doing this."

"Doing what?"

"I mean, it's like…we've known each other forever, and been at odds with each other forever. And now we're just sort of…"

"Vegetating?"

"I was going to say coexisting…and it's all sort of average in a way that makes the whole thing anticlimactic."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You could have….ended it, you know. A long time ago."

"What are you talking about?"

"Our first year feud. After I found out you knew the guilty party was Quirrel, not me, I was waiting for you to…say something."

Harry turned his eyes down. "You mean…apologize for jumping the gun and thinking you were the culprit?"

Snape shifted. "And some."

"And like…that time we…set you on fire?"

"Getting warmer."

"And maybe I could have…thanked you for saving me at Quidditch? And like, getting your leg half gnawed off by Fluffy trying to head off Quirrel?"

"That thing….was named… _Fluffy_?"

"Yeah, that was Ron's reaction when he found out about the name," Harry noted. "Weird, right?"

Snape shook his head, as if to shake the disconcerting notion of a ferocious three-headed dog having a name like some little old lady's corgi, in addition to the disconcerting notion that he and Ron Weasley had shared a common thought pattern. "Regardless," he muttered. "Yes, getting back to what was just articulated, I think those would have been some substantial areas of discussion which you could have…approached me about."

"I just….didn't know how to go about it," Harry admitted. "You obviously still thought of me as mud either way, and….I don't know. The way you kept staring at me, like at the end of the year feast. It just…"

"I was waiting for you to… _look at me_ ," he mumbled.

"What?"

"I…I thought…." Snape paused, trying to think out what he was saying. He remembered that first year feast vividly. It was the year Dumbledore had snatched the winning points away from Slytherin last minute, disregarding Snape's own exertion on behalf of the school during the previous episode, and his feelings on the issue. But he still somehow expected some type of end of the year closure with the Boy Who Lived. "I thought your eyes would say to me what had to be said, no words needed. And…I could have…managed to meet them, perhaps."

Yes, if he had seen something in those eyes that bespoke the least shred of remorse or gratitude or understanding, he might have managed to look back. He probably would have given him an eyebrow raised, haughty, "oh, really?" glare in return. But at the base of it would have been a tacit truce, a realization that at the end of the day, they were on the same side.

"I would have still gone hard on you, Potter," he admitted. "But the feud might have ended in its intensity, all the same. You would no longer have been…"

"James?" Harry filled in.

"I might have tried harder to give you…the benefit of the doubt. But…you did not look."

"Okay, so maybe….we all made some mistakes. Like we just…judged each other so fast, we didn't even think it out straight."

"I was thinking straight," his teacher retorted.

"Good grief, you can't go expecting me to take all the blame here! You were rough stuff a lot of the time with little or no reason! You've got to admit that!"

"I was trying to knock some survival skills into you lot of weaklings," he grumbled, then sighed. "However, I will admit in retrospect that perhaps I….I laid it on a bit thick at times."

"You don't say?"

"There you go with your cheek again, boy," he growled. "Just confirms my methods with you scurvy little ne'er-do-wells…"

"Sorry, I just couldn't resist." Harry grinned. "Glad you're still here to tell me off, Snape."

Snape rolled his eyes. "You just want someone to coerce into playing 'Mouse Trap' for some sort of infantile group therapy."

"Sure," Harry agreed with a sparkle in his eye. "Hey, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"What now?"

"Well, I…stumbled across something I don't think you meant to give me. It was in one of your books, the Tennyson one?" Harry started digging in his coat again, and produced what looked like a really crumpled piece of note paper. "It's apparently a memorandum, from a certain first year Slytherin…"

"Wait…what?"

"It's dated Hogwarts, First Year," Harry confirmed. Then, with a satisfied smirk creeping across his face, he started to read: "'Dear Future Self, I am writing to inform you that I have accomplished my mission…'"

"Oh, God…"

"'I know what she wants for Christmas. I saw her looking at it in a shop window during a field trip. The trouble is that the price is beyond my range of payment. However, all is not lost…'"

Harry smiled wider as he read, and remarked, "Is this really you?"

Snape grumbled something inarticulate and scathing. Harry took it as a reasonably close confirmation that his estimation was correct.

"You were a much more positive person than you are now."

"One of those childish maladies that was happily outgrown," he snapped.

"Don't say 'happily','" Harry chided. "It's a bad word, you know."

"Would you just…conclude this pain-effusive recitation, for the love of Merlin?"

"Okay, fine," Harry agreed. "So…ah, here we are…you go on to say: 'I have been working secretly to perfect a spell I have in mind. If it proves successful, it shall be my first ever original addition to the Spellery. I have included instructions on the back of this note paper…wish me well, future self!'" Harry flipped over the paper. "Wow! The first spell of the Half-Blood Prince!"

"Give me that thing!" Snape snapped, making an awkward lunge for it, though he was too far away to reach.

"Oh, come on! This should be in some sort of creepy museum display!"

"The museum of Askaban's most wanted?"

"Hey, that's a cool idea!"

"Don't bother to thank me…"

"Like some sort of Hall of Infamy! That could make a pretty penny in tourist intake!"

Snape squinted. "I never realized what conniving little vultures I was teaching all these years…"

"I've so got to test this out!"

"What?!"

"You wrote the necessary items down…can you toss me that pillow?"

"Why should I do that, you artless young knave?"

"Because you said that this spell needs one."

"Really, Potter, you need…to get a real job."

"Fine, great, whatever," he shrugged. "Just… _gimme_!"

Snape grumbled, but ultimately thrust the pillow at him in annoyance, just to shut him up. He watched as Harry proceeded to toss it on the floor, whip out his wand, and start to repeat the Latin incantation written on the paper. There was a zapping sound, and then…

"Whoa! What…is that thing?!"

Snape sighed. "It's a typical Potter butchery of a simple procedure which I was able to create and execute with masterful skill in first year."

"Yeah, but…what _is_ it?"

"You mean what is it is _supposed_ to be?" he corrected. "Didn't I already mention that you trying to mimic my spells never ends well? Why must you torment a dying man with these futile exhibitions of incompetence…?'

"Are you ever going to spit out what it is?!"

Snape sighed. "A stuffed reindeer."

Harry looked at the disproportionately stuffed, goggly-eyed item dubiously. "My mum really wanted _that_?"

"My professionally rendered version…had… _class_. You just distorted it beyond recognition. Furthermore, you wasted a perfectly usable pillow, and created a nightmare inducing eyesore which is tortuous to gaze upon."

"You don't cut anyone breaks, do you?"

"Not if it can be helped. Your father gave me enough strife over that project."

"What did he have to do with this?"

Snape looked at the ceiling. "He…bought the damn bloody thing for her from the shop."

"Oh," Harry exhaled. "Sorry about that."

"You shouldn't be sorry," Snape snapped. "Your existence depends on him beating me in my efforts with her, and he was beating me even in first year. You shouldn't be sorry at all."

"Yeah, but your younger self was more…sympathetic, somehow."

"I don't want sympathy!"

"You're not getting any; it's for your former self alone!"

Snape made a strange noise, like grinding his teeth together. "Former self…was a very silly creature to think…anything good could…come of this place."

"Nah," Harry countered. "Maybe that little bit of hope in the beginning kept you from completely falling apart later on."

"Whoever said I was falling apart, loggerhead?"

"Nobody! I just meant…"

"But I might just do so if you don't remove that monstrosity staring at me." He flailed his arm broadly at the stuffed entity, which looked rather like a cross between a hippo and a giraffe with moose antlers and glittery bug eyes.

"Oh, come on," Harry shrugged. "It's kinda cute, actually."

"It's a beastly abrogation which deserves incineration."

"I reserve incineration for dark lords trying to take over the world, not cuddly stuffed animals without a friend in the world."

"Then just…throw it outside," Snape offered as an alternative. "Maybe it will get devoured by something with long, sharp teeth."

"Gosh, you _are_ sadistic."

"Thank you."

Harry sighed. "Here, I'll just throw a blanket over it…"

"You already ruined my pillow; now you're taking my blanket?"

"Well, hey, you should have written a counter-spell or something!"

"My life…became increasingly complicated, if you haven't figured that out already."

"Well, maybe this is what the dark lord needed all along."

"I'm…not following you…"

"A stuffed animal, all his own. He was probably deprived as a child, and then just took it out on the planet in sort of a mass temper tantrum."

Snape's eyes started to glaze over. "You're proposing that my first spell was really destined to save the world?"

"Yeah, you should have focused more on perfecting it."

"Alas and alack." Snape raised an eyebrow. "Now would you kindly get your bloody self and your bloody creation and your bloody board game out of my already over-assaulted viewing range? I want to rest in peace."


	11. Chapter 10: Sinner's Stairs

Chapter 10: Sinner's Stairs

The days passed, and Harry and Snape continued to be who they always were. But they were together, and they were not hating it so very much after all. They were each serving as a pastime for the other. And it was becoming comfortable. They played their little games with one another, ate their strangely assembled lunches, talked, sometimes for hours and into the night, about books and the war and their childhoods and the future and muggle weirdness and the local flora and fauna. They complained about the Ministry of Magic together.

They found themselves bizarrely appreciating some of the same shared memories, even when they were sources of contention between them. Just the fact that they were both still alive to talk about it made them fond. Sometimes their conversations became macabre, and they joked about death. Both had seen enough of dying almost to be desensitized by it, to a point. It was coming, of course, to take them; but they were together now, and ribbing about death seemed to give them power over it.

And yet at the same time…they seemed to almost forget what was coming. Like, it wasn't _real_. It was just a game. No real harm would come to them, as long as they could still spar with each other, still keep their silly little routine in check. So they kept at it, their antagonistic bond. And they seemed to relish in it.

One day, Snape was awake and waiting for Harry to show up for his daily dose of snark on snark, when the door opened. "Behold, the conquering hero comes," he intoned. When he looked up at him, though, his tone of voice changed. "Bloody hell, Potter…what on earth happened to your face?"

Harry automatically reached up and touched the bad scrape running along his cheek. "Eh, it's nothing." He proceeded to stumble in the doorway, notably off-balance.

"Nothing…bull," Snape sighed. "Did you have another tussle with a troll in the girls' lavatory?"

"I outgrew trolls ages ago," he shrugged.

"Then you slipped on a bar of soap in the shower?"

"Ouch…that's silly. I always take baths." He rested his hand on the side of his head.

"Sit down, you young fool, before you fall down on your rear. I am quite unwilling and ill-equipped to be nursing you in any way, shape, or form should such an accident occur."

"Come off it; I know you're wishing it on me," Harry muttered, slumping into his usual chair by the cot.

Snape wasted no time in snatching Harry's lower jaw, in a no-nonsense fashion, and turning his face to observe his injured cheek.

" _Oww_!" Harry yelped. "You slimy git, you…"

"Alright, spit it out, what happened?"

"I'm not telling you," he mumbled.

"What, would it bruise your precious pride, hmm?"

"You just happen to be the merciless sort."

"I also happen to be the knowing sort." His eyes widened. "Was it the stairs, Potter?"

Harry groaned. "Those things have mind of their own."

"Yes, but you're supposed to try and outsmart that mind," Snape noted. "You're just lucky you didn't get it worse. Are you injured anywhere else?"

"Aside from all my bones getting knocked together, I got a rather nasty bump on the head."

"Let me see," Snape snapped, feeling about on Harry's head.

"Okay…you're being weird!"

"Shut up," his former teacher huffed. "Ah, yes…found it. Almost the size of a hard-boiled egg by now."

"Thanks for the vivid description," Harry muttered.

"Have you been nauseous, light-headed, even more stupid than usual, or sensitive to light, sound and the shrill female voices emanating from your hero-worshipping herd of admirers?"

"Herd?" Harry chortled. "You make them sound like water buffalo!"

"If the shoe fits…"

"Hey, some of them are pretty hot."

"Then tell them to take off their outer capes and get some fresh air lest they faint and cause more disturbance to an already disturbed magical society."

"I'm not against them taking off their capes," Harry assured, slyly. "They kind of mess up observation accuracy."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Just like… _him_. Warped little monster."

"Oh, come on, are you telling me you've never had any thought about these things all this time?" Harry challenged. "I wouldn't call you the sheltered type."

"The fact is, Potter, I am monogamous," he stated. "It's a choice, not a condition. And believe me, with all the running about these days…"

"Eh, monogamy is overrated. One has to map out the lay of the land…"

"Do not interrupt the teacher, brat."

"What are you going to do? Dock points?"

"Yes," he hissed. "And then hold you to your honor as a would-be graduate of Hogwarts to reveal to Professor McGonagall, after I am decidedly deceased, that I docked them."

"That's…putting a lot of trust in me," he noted.

"Point of fact, I have come to believe that somewhere in there you have a conscience. Which brings me back to the original point: you don't go chasing after a girl on sight. You don't go looking her over like she was a milk cow…"

"You're the one who called them a herd!"

"Irrelevant," he snapped. "It's still not the right thing to do, you little beast. It's putting the horse before the cart. You've got to…care enough about her to make things right by her, before biological stimulation comes into play." He exhaled. "The fact that a defected death-eater has to be the one to tell you that is pathetic, but it's obviously got to be done, no two ways about it."

"Well, thank you for that snippet of advice from dating central," Harry chirped.

Snape's eyes sparkled dangerously. "You're lucky you already have a head injury…or you'd get something to make up for the lack."

"Wait, so you're saying you've _never_ entertained any…fantasies?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If you mean, vagrant, have I thought upon the general gist of the process at given points in my life, then I will concede to that. However, if you are asking if I entertained wild illusions of sensual bliss with mythical females too perfect to even be desirable, than I must decline from association with it."

"So what do you find desirable?"

"What…"

"You know, romantic? Sexy? Whatever you want to call it?"

Snape shrugged. "I'm sure you're just dying to know…"

"Look, you just gave me a big lecture on what not to do, and I'm curious about your alternative. Your philosophy of romance."

"Anything can be romantic, including nonsexual things, believe it or not," his teacher grumbled under his breath. "Walking can be romantic, if you don't care particularly about getting anywhere. Talking can be romantic, if there's trust in it, and something more meaningful than sweet nothings, with quiet spaces in it that aren't awkward, like a symphony. Reading can be romantic, eating can be romantic, making things grow can be romantic….as long as someone is there who understands, even in an unspoken way, that it all is worthwhile, that there's something greater to life than running about like chickens without heads in search of a thousand ways to amuse or thrill or entice each other onwards, in some perverted little game, to prove to the world that you're not…alone. That you can keep the other party constantly entertained, like a painted clown at a circus, and always terrified of dropping the juggling balls someday, and having the audience break up."

Harry stared at him with his mouth open. "That was…quite a rant."

"You got what you asked for; now you're complaining?"

"I was originally asking about fantasies, but that…that was…actually, I don't know what that was…"

"Fantasy is not my forte. I deal in facts."

"Not even fantasies about…well, you never think about…?"

Snape tightened. "Don't…ask me that."

"I'm not trying to mock you," Harry disclaimed. "I just…wondered. It wouldn't be unnatural if you had or anything. You obviously…cared beyond anything skin deep."

In all truth, Snape did not often fantasize about making love to Lily; he just imagined with brutal accuracy how it might have gone, and the result was far from uninhibited bliss. He knew he was no ladies' man like James Potter, and he had always been reticent about physical interaction of that sort. Indeed, when he first read about it in a text book at around 12, he had felt rather unwell.

He could not imagine that his sexual shyness would have just evaporated if he and Lily ever did wind up having a wedding night. In fact, he vaguely envisioned himself gulping down some type of generic "courage" potion (that tasted more like cough syrup) in a shoddy bathroom before entering his own room in a barely-make-ends-meet cottage somewhere.

Lily in the flesh would have been beautiful, of course; gazing at her fully would have been pleasurable. But Snape himself would no doubt have tied himself up as tight as he could in a black robe and been terrified to take it off. He had heard enough about women's unrealistically high expectations for wedding nights, and would have been afraid that what he had to offer would send hers crashing down. He was not the most handsome man in the world, simple fact, and he didn't think nakedness would have improved him, either.

He could imagine his young self having said something totally unappealing like, "Want to just try to see how far we get with this thing while our clothes are still on, and see if you even like it up to that point?"

Of course, even madly impassioned kissing that he had observed others engaging in had sort of confused him…how would they not bite each other's tongues or clash noses (of which he was particularly concerned, possessing a decidedly large specimen)? Lily being Lily, she probably would have indulged his awkwardness, because he would have that frightened little boy look in his eyes that she had a hard time resisting. But her patronizing him would probably only have made him feel worse.

Finally, he hoped, his body would have just taken over…but even then, he had a feeling he probably would have been half sick worrying about doing something wrong and hurting her and somehow sending her to the hospital…or maybe just failing to meet her needs, which was almost certain given how his off-beat "drive" took forever to strike on, and then struck off again with noteworthy rapidity and little ceremony. Then he probably would have apologized forever and a day for destroying her whole experience.

But in the back of his mind, he thought of a way the worst could have been averted by trying to establish the mood. He could have read to her in bed first, something old and richly romantic, the kind of thing that reads like honey off the lips, like "The Lady of Shalott".

 _"On either side of the river lie long fields of barley and of rye, that clothe the world and meet the sky, and through the field the road runs by to many-towered Camelot…"_

The gilded sweetness of it might have aroused the slumbering passion that sometimes stirred in his voice, deep and dark, simmering beneath the surface like hot, melted chocolate.

 _"And moving through a mirror clear that hangs before her all the year, shadows of the world appear…there she sees the highway near, winding down to Camelot…"_

The ribboned roll of timeless words could have been the silver dagger that cut to the heart of him, and his hands might have spoken more words, his own words, and stroked the sunbeam hair and moonbeam skin as covers fell away and they became an open book to one another. Her emerald orbs then would have swallowed him up in the moment, and their lips clasped, tasting the words "I love you" over and over again, with no other concern to taint it. And oh, he could have died to taste it…

 _"And in her web she still delights, to weave the mirror's magic sights, and often in the silent nights a funeral with plumes and with lights and music went to Camelot…"_

And in the intensity of becoming part of each other, his tongue would have murmured it too, and after the tension had passed. He imagined the feeling of her holding him, of the softness of her breast against the hard support of his chest, and how the pulsing of their hearts' blood inside of them would run together in a unison of sound, like two streams trickling into a great river that gushes out into the fathomless, saltwater sea of longing and tears.

 _"She left the web, she left the room, she made three paces through the room, she saw the water lily bloom, she saw the helmet and the plume…she looked down to Camelot…"_

And he would have known that all this was a new expression of the same love, not some mechanical act, disconnected from all that had gone before. No, they would have still been able to embrace with warmth, as their love had blossomed warm with childhood…but it might have been matured, finalized, and run deeper down.

"So…are you going to tell me whether you outsmarted the stairs or not?"

He snapped back to reality after his rare attempt at a partially successful fantasy, and averted his gaze from the boy.

"Oh, go on, be fair," Harry teased him. "Tell me how you got yours."

"Perhaps I prefer to keep the circumstances to myself, you reckless intruder," he growled. "Have you not learned any respect for the privacy of others?"

"Okay, okay," Harry conceded, and then fell silent. "Let's just forget the whole thing."

Snape seemed somewhat surprised by the boy's willingness to let it lie. "I will say this," he offered quietly. "The stairs have a way of getting their man…even if they have to wait up to the last year."

"So…for both of us then?"

Snape shrugged. "Those sadistic stairs have inflicted worse damage than a good clean knock to the head. They can crush you, body and soul, if they have the mind to do so." He exhaled, and added, "Sometimes I think this whole damned place has a hankering for inflicting harm."

Snape remembered the day the stairs had taken him down…he remembered it because it was the day of his mother's funeral. He had asked her, before leaving for his final year at Hogwarts, if she wanted him to stay with her. She was almost too weak to get off the sofa, and his father had been gone for days. She had insisted he go. He had protested harshly to cover his feelings, too harshly about it not being seemly even for "bad boys" to leave their mothers to cough to death. And then she had cried, and he had cursed his father, and she had cried more, and somehow, for once, he found himself cradling her skin-and-bones body against him. And then she had pushed him off of her and told him to go. And so he had left.

And he knew. He knew the message would come, any time. And it did, in the form of a phone call…from Tobias Snape. His father, broken-voiced, asking him to come back, come back to Cokeworth for the funeral. And 17-year-old Severus, with the coldest of precision, had refused. And with the coldest of precision, he had wished his father dead. Then he hung up the phone.

The day of the funeral came, and the whispers ran scurrying through the school, of his Slytherin cruelty in refusing even to bid his last respects to his mother. But he felt a pair of green eyes upon him in the classes, the first time in a long time, and he knew that she knew the truth. She very nearly had come over to him at the end, but the Gryffindor goons had cut her off, delayed her motion as Snape, torn up inside, shunted out of the class room.

Later that day, the final straw was drawn. He was called into the headmaster's office to receive some "urgent news." What he heard drained him white. Tobias Snape…was dead. Killed himself. Cut his wrists. Dead. He had written the beginning of his son's name in blood, they said, on the wall. No one knew what he had meant.

Snape did not properly recall at what point his breaking point was breached. It all was a haze after coming out of Dumbledore's office, still processing his father's suicide…then he remembered hearing Potter taunting him in the hall with an old drinking song…

"If I had another penny, I would have another gill…I would make the pipe play 'The Bonny Lass of Byker Hill'…"

Snape had made an honest effort to get away from him; he felt too out of sorts to even fight, and knew that if he let himself go it would certainly be to the death. But Potter blocked his path. They were on the edge of the stairs, and their faces were only inches apart. And then he had started the taunting…about his washerwoman mother with loose morals and his drunken brute of a father caked in factory grime…and what a fine, very fine son they had raised…who wouldn't go to his own mother's funeral, and wished his father in his grave.

Severus had grunted some shivering warning, but Potter pressed it, one step further…Snape did not even recall exactly what was said…perhaps it was something about his lack with the ladies…but it made him snap. He snapped, snapped like a twig in the wind, like a sword over the knee, and they both found themselves in mortal combat on the stairs.

They fought and fought, thirsting for blood with no lesser prizes being offered or accepted, scratching and striking and spitting and kicking, ramming into each other beyond the realm of restraint. Potter struck him below the belt, and he crumpled, but then Snape managed to flip him over by reaching between his legs and tripping him. Sprawled on equal terms now, Snape pounced on his nemesis, and before he could properly worm his way out of it, the Cokeworth commoner had the mouthy-southy in a death-grip around the throat.

It would take strength, Snape estimated, to keep his former tormenter subdued until the strangulation was complete. He was already writhing with all he had to free himself. But Severus was beyond compunction now, and all he wanted was to feel his tormenter's life melt away in his hands. He had Potter's one arm pinned behind his back, and the other could do little but weakly dig nails into Snape's shoulder. He could put up with that last pain…well enough…

"Brat…brat, you cunning bitch-born brat…" Snape hissed, as he consciously let Potter draw a breath before siphoning it off again. "You're going to know…how it feels…slow torture…like you made my every…waking hour…how dare you…torture me…"

It was a strange thing, being so physically close to his arch-enemy, to the point of feeling the thumping in his tightening chest, and feeling how hot his neck was becoming under the merciless collar of his bony fingers. He felt Potter twitch under the extended agony cutting off his breath. Snape imagined he was in a state of disbelief…how could a perfect, charmed life end this way?

"There, do you feel it?" he demanded, but his voice was breaking, beginning to feel as if he himself was the one losing air. "Do you feel… _that_?" Again, he purposely let Potter draw breath, more like a stifled gasp this time, before once again applying the pressure to his windpipe. And again, there was squirming, writhing, clawing…

"No, no more," Snape snarled. "You're going to know what it's like…to die…like you…killed me…" He leaned his body weight into him, and held it, and held it, and held it…

He held the grip ever tighter until Potter's eyes grew foggy and his face turned a grisly shade of purple. His body began to respond automatically, and he regurgitated the saliva being pressed out of his throat. The foam flaked his trembling lips like the frost of death. It was then Snape decided he wanted to see the last thoughts of his enemy, to relish in them as they muddled in his mind and then ceased to be.

But when he found his own thoughts penetrating that strangulated boy, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. So many feelings and memories, hopes and despairs, piercing through him all in an instant….Quidditch matches won, and the skateboard he got when he was 10, and how his parents would handle seeing their only son in a casket. Pain, terror, shock…the realization that the life was slipping away, and he could hold it back. And the random acknowledgement that his neck must be bruising…

And then…and then…Lily….she was in his mind first in memory, and Snape saw them both at the parties, the picnics, the social gatherings for House Gryffindor…the two of them dancing playfully by an outdoor fountain, and later sharing an ice cream cone and getting brain freezes and laughing…of a beautiful opal necklace he had fastened on her, and how he naughtily kissed her neck….and how she had blushed and smiled.

Then he saw not memories, but dreams…dreams of the future that now would surely never be, of her in bridal white, of the bouquet thrown, and the kiss of passion she would share with Potter…of the wedding night, oh, God…flesh upon flesh creating one flesh….and knowing that she enjoyed it, that she was happy…and happier still in the future, as she cradled a child…Potter's child…in her arms. But the child…had _her_ eyes…

Snape felt his hands shaking and his eyes welling up with tears. "You….you!" he spat. "Look…what you've done to me…look…at your monster! May you burn in hell before you touch her!" He felt himself losing himself so badly, bloodlust was burning like fire through his brain, like all the torments of hell…

And yet even so, he felt himself loosening the stranglehold and allowing him to chokingly draw another breath. He started coughing hard on his own spittle, and Snape roughly shoved him over on his side to spit it out.

"I hate you…hate you… _hate_ …" Snape's words ground to a halt as hot tears coursed down his face. If he killed Potter, no matter how deserved he felt it was in that moment, he would somehow be killing Lily's own future, her own child-to-be…and in that way, he would be killing a part of her very self. And that…he could not do. No…even throbbing in the apex of hatred…he could not do it.

The next thing he knew, the Marauders were on him in force, dragging him off of his half-conscious victim…and then beating the living daylights out of him. Snape did not even bother to fight back; there were too many, and he just didn't care. He was too burnt out inside to bother. He just let the pain soak through his broken soul and when it became too intense, tried to stagger, stagger away from them so they wouldn't keep hitting him…and then the stairs…those cursed stairs joined in the fun…they moved, they betrayed him…and everything flashed away…

Laying there at the bottom of the stairwell, he had been unable to let the fragmented imagery tearing through his head coalesce into actual thoughts. Everything, inside and out, felt shattered like mirror glass, and he felt submerged in his own cursed bad luck. All he knew was that the pain was gnawing at every part of him, and he could not find the strength to move. He felt warm liquid running down nose …he struggled to breathe through it.

And then there was Potter in front of him, staring down at him. Snape couldn't talk, but just stared blankly, blearily into the eyes of his enemy who he had nearly strangled to death. He couldn't even direct his hatred properly anymore. Everything felt off-balance and tangled up inside. He felt as if he were slipping away somehow, and everything outside his own sphere of pain was in another dimension.

But all he knew was that look in Potter's eyes was the look of someone watching a snake, just having been bashed in the head, writhing in twisted circles. And no one pities a snake in agony. They just wait and watch with a strange fascination, a disgusted stimulation, for this slithering evil to go stiff and still. And Snape had never felt so very evil before, realizing that indeed, he was embodying it, that his pain was seen as evil, and evil suffering, and evil rendered helpless…it was a triumph, it was a good thing… _it hurt_ …

He heard some voices off in the distance; he assumed they were going to get help, after all. The reluctant kind of help that keeps body and soul together, just barely, but does nothing…to stop…pain…

"Your snout's broken, Snivelous," Potter rasped, barely audibly, from the intense swelling in his throat. "It was never much to look at…anyway." Shakily, he dug into his pants, and threw something on the ground. The clatter made Snape tighten. He felt so battered, even sound pierced him. He couldn't do anything but keep looking with empty eyes at his enemy, tasting the air clotting in his spittle.

Then he managed to see…it was…a coin, lying on the ground next to him.

"Worth your weight in gold," Potter spit out, falling weakly against the wall, but the contempt still crawling through his bloodshot eyes. "Go…buy a gill with it."

With a shaking, insanely shattered sense of fury, Snape had snatched at that coin to cast it as far away from himself as he could, but he could not manage the throw, and it fell only a pace away from him. Then he found himself mindlessly cursing, using every swear word he could remember from out of his father's mouth, mixed with the magical curses that, wandless as he was, would have no effect. Still, he continued swearing brokenly until he was half-drowning in his own blood, unable to lift himself up to let it drain out of his nostrils. And he found that he was afraid.

He felt a rough shove from a boot and found himself flat on his stomach. It made it easier for him to breathe, although the movement made his nerves feel torn apart. He found himself ranting inarticulately in the midst of his helplessness, sinking into a lurid haze of delirium, and then unintentionally finding the anger melting into more tears, and his words of hatred falling in and out, like sobs. On an instinct that ran deeper than the will, "Lily" formed on his lips. After all, she had been more than a mere friend or even potential lover…for when his mother was not there for him, when she had been more worried about pleasing his father than protecting him, Lily had been made up for it…she had been a little mother to him…and even the most hardened soldiers, when wounded sorely, might cry out for the touch of a mother's gentle hand…

"She's not…your little 'mudblood' slave," Potter panted, obviously in pain himself. "She'll not… be coming at your beck and call anymore, nor getting her hands…dirty on you. You've made your bloody bed…now learn to lie in it alone!"

In the hospital he was taken too, Snape fell into a coma. He nearly died, he was told later by Lucius Malfoy and the Slytherins who came to see him after the fact. He had to be hooked up, with tubes up his nostrils to keep him breathing. He could not remember clearly; all he knew was pain and murmurings around him, that he had nearly strangled one of his fellow students – the glitteringly popular James Potter, no less! – and that the stairs had given him just what he deserved.

They debated what they were going to do with his books if he died, since he had no family, and the Slytherins would want no part with his musty memory if he no longer served their purposes. And even though Lucius would go on to offer Snape a place to stay in the Malfoy estate in the aftermath, he knew well enough it was only because he would make a valuable death-eater. That was all.

He felt the disgust in the hands of the hospital attendants that forcefully tended to his injuries, a coldness in the healing incantations that were spoken, and in the plastic gloves against his skin, applying the splint. He was in and out, in and out and dreaming of her, and the past, and the future, and death. In his conscious moments, he instinctively sought out eyes, any eyes that might look at him, tell him he'd be alright. But no one looked. He wondered if anyone might sit by him. No one did, and when the lights were shut off at night in the ward, he found himself deathly afraid. He wanted something to hold onto that would comfort him, but all he had was the metal edge of his hospital bed. And he gripped it till it dented the flesh of his palm.

He was far too badly injured to be released from the hospital so soon, but release him they did, and let him struggle alone to pack his few belongings onto a little trolley and lug them back to his dorm. He had missed the end of the final examinations; he would have to take them over if he meant to graduate. He was low on money, and all his Slytherin friends and Gryffindor enemies had up and left. _She_ had up and left, with _him_ , and he hadn't even had the chance to process it. He was on his own, alone in the crippling embrace of pain.

As a boy, he had suffered from a weak constitution, and now it reared its ugly head. He caught a nasty flu that wracked his body and mind, making it next to impossible to concentrate on the second round of tests being extended by the headmaster to those "deserving but unfortunate" who had been left behind. _How kind of him, who had allowed the bullying and marginalization of grubby-faced working lads, and undeservedly awarded the filthy rich tormenters high honors._

For Snape, it was a living hell. Coughing with his recently broken ribs was excruciating. His only relief came from the blue gel capsules he had been given in hospital. But even they turned against him, slapping him down with the side effects of nausea, cramping, and bleeding.

His hands also started to shake, and his balance became compromised. He became paranoid of falling down again, of splitting himself open on the castle floor, but when he stumbled and the room spun in his vision, no one ever reached out a hand to steady him. Maybe he would have proudly shrugged them off anyway. He didn't know. He just knew…that no one cared, and the isolation felt like pinpricks deep inside.

The other leftover students avoided him, avoided him like a plague victim, or worse, made sport of him. They dared to mock him for his slow shuffling in the halls, for "getting in the way", and once someone viciously shoved him forward to "help him along". He had crumpled to the ground instantly, his heart pounding with anxiety as the memories of the stairwell flashed through him, and his books and class notes flew everywhere.

He swore, swore hard…but it did nothing to stop the pain. He wanted to kill…but he dare not, he dare not. One more infringement and he'd be thrown out after all this torture without even the courtesy of a diploma. He looked for his bottle of capsules and found they had rolled across the hall, and were now being picked up by another left-behind student…the last Gryffindor of the year.

"Give – it – to – me…" Snape had demanded hoarsely, stretching his trembling hand out to take it, although he knew not how he was going to manage standing up again on his own. "Give me…give me…you damned bastard, give me…"

The Gryffindor just looked at the bottle, unscrewed the lid, and let the blue capsules empty onto the floor. They bounced everywhere, and Snape felt the bottle flung at his face.

"See ya 'round, druggie," came the taunt, and then he was left alone.

Snape felt the rush of a full-fledged panic attack as he tried to scoop up all the capsules. He needed them, needed them so much…and he'd been told that he couldn't get a refill without payment, and he was already half starving himself for lack of funds to continue on with his classes. A major reason for the side effects he had been experiencing was that he had been taking the pills too regularly on an empty stomach.

But no one…no one cared…no one cared at all…

And perversely, he started to giggle, clutching at his stomach, alone in that hall. And in the midst of that giggling that made saltwater flow down his face, he very nearly stuffed a whole handful of the pills into his mouth. Fortunately, he laughed so hard he choked, and he could not swallow them. They spilled out of his hand and onto the floor again. He would live another day.

And…no one cared.

No one cared to squeeze his hand until it stopped shaking and let him grip something made of flesh and blood instead of inanimate objects like the scraped edge of his desk to refer his pain. Instead they studied the way it shook, and turned away with wariness in their eyes and contempt on their tongues. No one offered to help him study, to bring him something warm to eat, to even put up with him so he could snap and growl and talk and then sob it out.

No, no…he was no more than an insect for observation that just might have a lethal sting, and he thought he might very well like being one if he could just pay them back in the end.

But in that hall, his body's needs superseded his mind's intellect, and the starvation of his soul yearned for the wrap of human warmth and the taste of hot chocolate and raspberry scones. These things, these stupid, stupid things he thought about as he stared blankly at the wall across from him and let a whole hour pass motionless. He wanted touch and taste, and something nice to read to take his mind out of the darkness.

Then he remembered…he had one such volume among the books that had slipped from his hand, and he snatched it up with trembling fingers. It had once been his mother's, although he had changed the cover to hide its true contents. And the words blurred in his eyes, and his hands shook, but he read one line, over and over and over again till the torches dimmed and he could see no more:

"Oh night, thou was my guide…oh night more loving than the rising sun…oh night that joined the lover to the beloved one…transforming each of them into the other…"

And Snape, somehow, had gotten himself up. And he walked down the hall. And he earned his diploma. But the one time protégé had lost most of his love of learning. No. Now he felt himself board stiff, rock hard. Now he felt himself taking pleasure in the promises of the dark mark, as he was drawn into the Malfoy contingent, closer and closer yet, into the inner circle of the dark lord. And he felt he might just as well turn into the monster everyone thought he was…

But now, lying in a Hogwarts shack, with his life flashing before him, Severus Snape saw himself again…saw himself, scraped and spiritually drained, in the boy in front of him.

"You should…go to the hospital, Potter. Those stairs aren't something to laugh at."

Harry seemed listless, like he wasn't quite listening. Snape felt a lump of concern lodge in his throat. That bump on the head could be a sign of worse things within…

"You, I'm talking to you! Don't go nodding off on me…here, look at me!" He snatched Harry's collar and jerked his face towards him.

"Ugh…not again," Harry groaned. "Looking at you is getting redundant."

Snape smirked slightly. "Cheek, Potter," he clucked, and pressed his thumb into the scrape on Harry's face. He yelped accordingly. "You need to check into the hospital wing, young man, before you start seeing everything with polka dots, and black out."

"Seeing you in polka dots would make anyone black out," he corroborated, then twitched as Snape tugged at his arm menacingly.

Noting that Harry seemed pained, Severus challenged, "Alright, what's wrong with the arm?"

"I guess it got…out of joint again."

"Again?"

"Yeah, Uncle Vernon said I was just trying to get attention the first time when he had me moving furniture around for one of Dudley's birthday parties."

"How did your rotund uncle and cousin even fit inside a house with that much furniture?"

Harry chuckled. "I honestly don't know. Maybe that's why they had me move it around so much."

"He shouldn't have had a scrawny thing like you doing that kind of heavy labor on your own," Snape conceded quietly.

"I wasn't _that_ scrawny," Harry retorted. "I was small, but…tough."

"Like a Hufflepuff badger?"

"Ouch, did you have to say that?"

"Quite so." Snape's eyes danced a little. Then they flashed briefly …protectively. "But doing that yanked out your arm, didn't it?"

"Well, yeah. As I said, he was sort of like you and thought I just got a kick out of constantly making grand stands, so he didn't even bother to have it properly fixed. I had to do it on my own. May not have done it quite right, though."

Snape blinked, and there was a haze that passed quickly over his gaze. "I…can try to help with that now, if you're not opposed."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Just love making it hurt, don't you?" He felt Snape's hand firmly grasp his arm again and hissed in pain.

"Look, it's going to hurt; there's nothing I can do about that," Snape explained calmly. "But if you lean in a bit, I can make a clean, quick job of getting it back into socket, and you'll feel better afterwards. Just…lean into me, alright?"

Harry reluctantly did as he was told. "So are you gonna cue me when…?" A sudden jerk and shooting pain caused Harry to lurch forward and practically fall into Snape. His glasses did fall off, striking the bedridden man right in the nose.

"Damn it, boy, you need some glue for those things."

"Okay…okay…that _really_ hurt," Harry spit out through clenched teeth.

"Enough whining; you're all better now." Snape picked up the glasses and shoved them back on Harry's face. "Must I do every sensible bit of work around here?"

"You're the right one for the job, I guess."

"You guess, hmm?" Snape twitted. Then he grew solemn. "I just don't think any boy is equipped to fix themselves up on their own all the time. They need…some supervision."

Harry then felt Snape do something unexpected. He had his hand moved up on the boy's throbbing shoulder and was rubbing out the pain, gently yet firmly, with a professional air that still revealed some glimmer of unspoken understanding.

When he was done, Harry gazed at his shoulder. "Thanks," he said sincerely. "Feels a bit better now."

"Just don't put unnecessary strain on it," Snape instructed. "No heavy lifting or reaching backwards or moving about obese relatives' furniture or trying to secure your feminine fan base via idiotically heroic shenanigans."

Harry smiled. "Fair enough."

"Now, get yourself to a hospital this instant, you scramble-headed boy!"

Harry turned his eyes down, almost shyly. "Snape…I'm not the Chosen One anymore. Voldemort is long gone. You don't have to keep fretting over my health."

"Your health?" Snape repeated back incredulously. "Enough with the sentimentality. I simply need you around to unload years of accumulative frustration on, and specify all the areas in which you have shown yourself to be a sullen, lazy, useless twit before I depart from this plane of existence."

Now Harry laughed. "Well, good to know you have pure motives at least!"

"Don't think you don't need it, either," Snape scoffed. "Otherwise, all that fame would go right to your already overinflated head, and you'd turn out just like your…"

"Okay, okay, okay," Harry sighed. "I'll go to the hospital…just because you're giving me such a headache."

"As you know by now, I complete all my tasks with becoming efficiency. Now…get a move on before I have to use my boot on you!"


	12. Chapter 11: Afraid of the Dark

Chapter 11: Afraid of the Dark

Potter was gone for a long time, it seemed. Certainly longer than usual. Surely it had been longer than a day? Snape began to wonder how badly he really had been injured falling down those stairs. Or maybe he just got bored coming to the shack after a while. Maybe he just gave up on the whole expedition.

Snape just wished he hadn't gotten hooked on being fed, like some sort of zoo animal. But unfortunately, he had gotten used to it, and his stomach growled in complaint for the lack of Harry's paper bag lunches. And – dare he admit it? – perhaps he was missing the daily annoyances that come with human companionship.

For lacking of eating or talking, he found himself sleeping a lot. Sleeping and dreaming and remembering. It was dark and silent inside the shack, and sometimes he didn't know whether he was asleep or awake. Everything sort of drifted together. All he knew was that Lily was still there, still inside, still spritely and alive in his mind.

There were so many memories he had of their first year as friends, when he was just trying to figure out what being a friend meant. They were the simplest, but they lasted the longest, and shone the clearest for him. He had still been very shy back then, and would mostly just listen quietly to her with wide brown eyes as she rambled on. He hung on every word she said, and sometimes, he managed to smile.

"What's your favorite color?" she asked him one day as they wandered by the stream in the woods, and she skipped a rock.

He looked her in the eyes. "I guess…green. And yours?"

"Pink."

"Oh." He picked up a rock and skipped it himself. He wasn't very good at conversation at the age of 9, or as it turned out at any age, but he determined to make an effort. "What's your favorite…animal?"

"Oh, definitely deer. I feed them during the winter with oats, and hang things on the trees for them. They're my friends, and they're always in the old stories and songs, and always really magical." She smiled. "And what's your favorite animal?"

"Mmm…cats, I suppose. They're…interesting to watch."

"I like them too!" Lily concurred. "I always wanted a cat, but my sister is allergic." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I do feed the barn cats during the winter, down at old man Tucker's place."

"You…like to feed things," he observed, and then felt stupid for voicing such an off-beat commentary.

She just giggled. "So what's your favorite food?"

Severus looked thoughtful. _People had favorite foods?_ He was always just happy if there was any food around at all. "I guess…whatever I had at your house last. That was…quite good."

"Shepherd's pie."

"Yes. That." Another memory floated back to him from a long time ago, when he was very small, and it was Christmas, and his mother had whipped up ingredients for something special. "And…pancakes, I suppose."

"Yes, I love pancakes," Lily concurred, "with lots of butter and syrup."

"I think my mum made them one time with lemon and sugar." Or at least…that was how he _thought_ she did it. He could barely remember. How old was he back then? Four? Five?

"I could probably learn how to make them like that," she stated. "Then I would have you over to test them on."

He blinked. "You…would?"

"Of course! I'd be making them to share, obviously."

He smiled a little. "Obviously."

"So…what do you want to do when you grow up?" she asked him as she skipped a rock in the nearby stream.

"I dunno. I guess…chemistry stuff. I'm pretty good at it, I think."

"You'd be brilliant at that!"

"Well…what about you? You want to…do anything?"

She rested her hand on her chin as if it were a really, really difficult question to answer. "Maybe a veterinarian on a farm out in the country, away from all the factory smog, where I could see the sky clearly. Or a cook or something…I really like to cook stuff. Or maybe run one of those butterfly habitat garden things, with all the fancy flower bushes. That would be amazing."

"Well…maybe you could cook a lot and have fancy bushes out on your farm," Severus suggested, trying to be helpful.

"And maybe you could have a chemistry lab adjoined to the farm, so we could still see each other, regular like."

He smiled again at that concept. "I'd…like that."

A little while later, they had both clambered up into a small tree, after he had decided he was going to teach her how to climb, as he was quite an expert at it. Oh, the things little boys will brag about in front of girls they start to like…

"My dad, he comes from Wales, you know," Lily informed him, dangling her legs over the sturdy limb. "He came east to work the factories here when he was quite young. Still says a few things in Welsh sometimes. I tried picking it up, but it's really hard!"

He was quiet for a long time, then muttered, "My mum…she's Irish. Her father came over from there. He worked the factories, too." He looked at her hard, realizing that more mockery might be in store now that he had revealed his Irish blood to her. "You won't go telling about that, will you?"

"Severus, you can tell me anything you want, and it's just between us," she promised, laying her hand on her heart. "But anyway, I think that's amazing. The Irish have the most amazing stories, I'm told."

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "When I was very little, she used to…tell me them sometimes. That was before, well…my dad didn't like that at all. He didn't like anything to do with the Irish. Said they all came to take away the jobs. That they were all about…black magic. "

He looked down from the tree, recalling how his mother Eileen used to sing to him when he was very small, sometimes old songs her own mother taught her, sometimes with bits of Gaelic mixed in. They used to calm him down if he had nightmares, or he had to go to bed hungry because there was nothing for supper. But his father had hit his mother across the mouth when he heard her using the old tongue. And she never used it again.

"Oh, that's sad," Lily remarked. "Do you remember any of the stories?"

"Not…well," he muttered. "Well, I do remember…a little bit of a song. It was a long time ago…probably butchering it in my head…"

"Go on, sing it for me!"

"Eh, I…can't sing."

"Well, fake it!"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, please!"

So he did try very lowly to sing what he remembered. He knew it was a bit off-key, but Lily didn't seem to mind too much. "Farewell, farewell, to you who would hear, you lonely travelers all. The cold north winds will blow again, the winding road does fall…" He remembered his mother's arms around him, when she used to hold him years before, and there was a fire burning, and he was able to fall asleep to the softness of her voice. "And will you never cut the cloth, nor drink the light to be? And can you never swear a year to anyone but me?"

"Oh, that's lovely," Lily said, "but also very sad."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It…sticks with you, sort of." He looked at her thoughtfully, and decided to divulge all the rest. "My mum…she's Catholic. I mean, it's not like she practices regular, but…yeah, she sort of is."

Lily didn't look too disturbed, just curious. "What about your dad?" she queried.

Severus shrugged. "Not much of anything, I guess. He doesn't care about any church at all. But he still doesn't care for Papists much. He wouldn't let her go off to Mass, even if she wanted to. Certainly wouldn't let her take me."

"Would you want to go with her if you could?"

"I dunno. I'm sort of…one of them, I guess. One of their priests did the christening. But that's it. I barely know anything about it. My mum got more into magic than Masses. She tells me more about that stuff. But she said…one time, she said she missed it, really badly. She said she'd understand if I ever went to a Mass. It's like once you go, it never lets go of you, and you can't shake it off."

"So you do want to go?"

"I…don't know. But I do wonder what it's like…" His voice trailed off. "Though I suppose I'm nothing, really, like my dad. I don't…believe anything, really, or belong anywhere." He looked into her eyes again. "Do you think less of me for that?"

She reached over and touched his hand, and it felt all tingly. "You're not 'nothing'," she corrected him. "You're my friend."

And they _were_ friends. Best friends. Very best friends. Almost every day for two years, they spent time together after school. They did everything together, both magic and muggle. They studied together and played together. He would teach her how to use her magical gifts, and she particularly was fond of the spell which allowed her to transform leaves into butterflies. She invited him to events he would never attend otherwise, and went roving with him long hours in the woods. And the usually quiet Severus learned to speak his heart. They talked a lot, and the talking made him feel all filled up inside, because she really seemed to care about what he had to say. And he loved to hear her talk, hear her laugh, just watch her, just be with her.

But he never realized how attached he had become to her than when she was 10 years old, and she came down with a bad case of the measles. When school let out, and she was not there to meet up with, he felt totally out of sorts. Somewhere between his unstable home life and the constant bullying at school, she had become his one thing to look forward to, his one candle glimmering in the dark. Without her there, he felt very lost.

So he found himself wandering over to her house, over to her window of their single-story dwelling, and seeing it partially open, managed to clamber up onto the sill.

"Lily," he called into her softly, seeing her lying in her bed.

She flickered open her eyes. "Sev," she murmured weakly. "You really shouldn't be here. This thing I've got is contagious!"

"Yeah, but…I had to see how you were doing."

"Well…it hasn't killed me yet…"

"Don't say that," he blurted. "You'll…be fine. I'm sure of it."

She smiled a little. "You better climb inside. It's too chilly to be straddling the sill all afternoon."

He didn't need further persuasion. As he drew near the bed, Lily covered half her face with her blanket. "By the way, I look really ugly right now."

"Nah, you couldn't…be like that," he countered. "Does it hurt a lot though?"

"I'm just really scratchy and sore," she explained. "And I've sort of got a headache."

"Oh, dear," he commiserated. "Well…I got you something…" He fuddled in his coat pocket and pulled out a vibrant red chrysanthemum, which he had snatched off the harvest display in front of the Methodist church earlier that day.

Lily's eyes sparkled seeing the present (Snape had learned she had an absolute weakness for presents), and let her blanket slide down, revealing both the rash on her face, but also the fact that she was sleeping with several stuffed animals, including a pin cat, a sparkly unicorn, and polka dot kangaroo.

Severus was tempted to smile a little at this, but thought that might be rather rude, given her condition, so instead he just sighed and tenderly touched her cheek. "Poor Lily…"

"See? Told you I looked ghastly," she lamented.

"No, not near as bad as that," he assured. "It just…looks uncomfortable."

"It is," she agreed. "But I so love your flower, Severus!" She leaned back against her pillow and just stared at it gleefully.

"I'm…I'm glad," he responded awkwardly. His eyes drifted to her bookshelf. "Umm…would you like me to…maybe read you something?"

"Like what?"

"Like…anything you want."

She sat up and thought about it. "I got a book out from the library a little while ago. It's called James and the Giant Peach. I don't think I'll like it though, because there are spiders and skeletons in it, and this little boy's parents get killed by a giant rhinoceros."

"Well…I read pretty fast. So if I read it to you, I can skip over the creepy bits, if you want," he offered.

"Okay, then."

So he started to read the book to Lily, sitting on the side of her bed. When she complained of the cold though, he moved closer to her, and in the end they both wound up under the covers, her feverish head on his shoulder, and her arms wrapped around his waist for warmth. And as he read, monotone as always, she drifted off to sleep. Seeing her asleep made him notice just how beautiful she was, even with the measles. And then and there in his young mind, he knew he want to hold her like this always. He swallowed nervously, then with great hesitation, he let his lips touch her hot forehead for an instant.

"I love you, Lily," he whispered very, very softly. "I'll love you till the day I die…"

Just then the door flew open. "Good heavens! What are you…?" It was Mrs. Evans, and she clearly did not approve of what she saw. "Get out of her bed, boy!"

Lily sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Mum…he was only reading me 'James and the Giant Peach'…"

"I don't care a fig! It's unseemly to be having some boy lollygagging about in bed with you!"

"He's not 'some boy'!" Lily protested. "He's Sev, and I'm the one who asked him under the covers because I was cold!"

"It's alright," Severus mumbled, clambering out of bed. "I probably shouldn't be here anyway."

"Well-spoken," her mother snapped. "Now I'll probably have to wash the sheets…"

The boy looked down awkwardly, noting the smudges on his shirt. "Umm…hope you feel better, Lils," he offered, trying to hide the dejection in his voice, heading for the open window.

"We do have a door," Mrs. Evans huffed in annoyance.

"See you real soon, Sev," Lily called after him, hoping to ease the tension as he was ushered out of her room.

Once outside, her mother eyed him suspiciously.

"So…you think you care about her, don't you?"

Snape's eyes flitted awkwardly, but he ultimately nodded.

"Well, caring for someone is doing the best for that person, even at cost to yourself."

Severus didn't know what to say to that.

She continued, "Lily is a very sweet, and sometimes naïve girl. She'll forget all about herself to help others she thinks are in need of helping. But friendship has got to go two ways. Not with one side just giving and giving and giving, and the other side just taking it all and giving nothing back."

Snape blinked, shocked. "I…I just came…to give her a flower…"

"You came because you don't know what to do with yourself without her around," Mrs. Evans corrected him. "You use her like a crutch."

 _A crutch?_ The young Snape didn't know what she meant. He liked being around her more than anything in the world, but…it wasn't like he was _using_ her…or at least not in a bad way… _was he_?

"Did it ever occur to you she might be better off spending her time with other friends, maybe some girls her own age, instead of always out with you?"

He shrugged, awkwardly. What was he supposed to say to that, exactly?

"What do you think it does to her when you always go running to her to patch you up? When she comes and cries herself to sleep over you, with your blood staining her dress? She's too young for such things. I don't mind her helping out, but you're causing her nothing but hurt, and sooner or later it'll just get worse…"

Severus stepped back, and blurted out, "I'd NEVER hurt Lily!" His whole thought process felt crumbled up like a ball of paper, and he ran out the door, confused and hurt and suddenly feeling very, very alone.

The next time Severus saw Lily was several weeks later, on Halloween. She had invited him to go with her to the cinema, which was running some sort of budget monster movie marathon in the evening. But when he arrived at her house to meet her, he overheard her parents talking together in the kitchen.

"Jeanie, you're overreacting," he heard her father say. "They're just kids, and she wouldn't be hanging about with him if he were truly bad to the core."

"I just don't see what Lily sees in the boy," her mother countered. "She's a lively enough young girl; he's a strange boy, quiet as the dead most of the time, and I don't like the way he stares. I've heard stories about youngin's like him, growing up on the bad end of town; they never turn out well, and everyone always says they should have listened to gut instinct."

"Maybe he just doesn't trust adults," Mr. Evans suggested. "He has it hard enough at home, after all. And I've seen nothing in his eyes unseemly when he looks at our girl. Only a lot of heart, that he probably doesn't get to show much."

"Still…what about when he grows up? What if his looks start…changing toward her?"

"You're thinking too far ahead, dear!" he sighed. "Friends come and go in this life. These days, she spends her every free hour with the boy. But believe me, time has a way of changing things. She'll be off and he'll be off in different direction, sure enough."

Severus had felt his heart thump hard in his chest. _But Lily had said they would be friends…always…_

"Sev!"

He spun around and saw Lily standing on the porch, dressed in…what he gathered was a homemade fairy costume. Or a butterfly, or something. She was wearing wire wings and some sort of cardboard headband.

"Well, are we going to the cinema or aren't we?" she queried, resting her hand on her hip.

"Umm…yeah," Snape agreed. "That's a nice…thing you're wearing."

She smiled coyly, grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door.

At the run-down old cinema building, not much more than a refurnished barn, Lily figured out how to slip Severus in free of charge by sneaking up to the loft where the projector machine was located. That way, they could enjoy the view and simultaneously avoid the crowd and the toll booth. But Lily did go to the snack stand and purchase a giant bag of popcorn for them to share, which Severus recalled had three different flavors—regular, cheddar, and caramel. She also bought a smaller bag of honey roasted peanuts which she promptly dumped into the popcorn "for flavor". It was a Lily thing. But…it was fun.

After the last zipper-laden Japanese monster had raided Tokyo for the ump-hundredth time and the marathon finally ended, Lily and Severus started to walk home together in the dark, aided by her handy-dandy glow-in-the-dark wand prop. Soon she started complaining about the weight of her wings, and he offered to carry them for her. So he helped her get them off, and felt very proud of himself for proving her mother wrong about him being incapable of being a useful component in a friendship.

But when they reached the outskirts of Snape's house, the children could hear his parents shouting the house down and the sound of things being tossed around.

"I've got to go…" Severus stated, handing Lily back her wings.

"No, Sev…he might…"

"I have to, Lily, I have to…" He had a feeling they were fighting about him staying out so late, and even then, even after he had sworn to himself never to bother sticking up for his mother again after she had disarmed him, he still couldn't let her get beaten for something he had done. Maybe if he were there, Tobias Snape would at least break up the intensity of his wrath between the two of them.

Sure enough, as soon as Severus entered the door, his father snatched him by the collar and held him up against a wall. "Where've you been, night crawler? Out with your prissy little uptown girlfriend again, huh?"

"Don't you say anything about Lily," Severus growled. "Don't you dare…"

Tobias laughed. "That washed out little redhead will sell you up river soon as something better comes along."

"She's…my friend!"

"Yeah, sure she is." He let go of the collar with the chortle. "You think her fine folk have forgotten what you are? Son of a factory bloke and a sour-faced Irish washerwoman."

Severus noticed his mother wince at the insult, and it him hurt him to see her hurt.

"Your precious little wench will be gone with the first respectable spark that comes along. And you, do you think your book learning or hocus-pocus will save you from being what you are? Nah…you're dirt, and you'll always be that way. It's on your face, in your mouth with the roughness of your speech. You live with it, and knock out of your head any false notions!"

The next day, Tobias ordered him to go to the factory, work on the chemical bottles like the other boys his age from the rough end of town. His mother tried to intervene, for once. She didn't want the boy's lungs poisoned, or become a casualty of one of many factory accidents. She had wanted him to go to school that day, but his father would hear none of it.

"What, trying to make a sissy of the boy? Nothing but a whelp of a scholar, what? Make it so he can't do anything without them magic sticks, huh? I'll teach him a thing or two…"

And he'd seized him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him out the door.

He still remembered how thick the fumes were in the factory, how he had coughed into the collar of his ragged coat. He'd heard his father cough like that, and the other factory men who hung about the taverns with him, and it had always frightened him. They were just drinking down the knowledge that their work would be the end of them.

And now he was doing it. No, no…he wanted to live! He didn't want to die in the filth of Spinner's End! He wanted to get out, go on, find his fame and fortune, and fresh air, and a blue sky not clogged with chemicals drifting across it and tainting it a yellowish gray…and _live_.

 _And it's go, boys, go! They'll time your every breath…_

He remembered how fast he had to work that one day, snatching up the chemical bottles as they moved along for processing. Then one fell down. He had grabbed for that broken bottle, and the shard of glass tore through his hand.

 _And every day you're in this place, you're two days nearer death…_

He tried to hide the injury, tried to sop up the blood and staunch it with a piece of wax paper used for the packaging. But they saw it and dragged him out by the collar, having it out with him in the cursed Potteries dialect.

"We're not having ya workin' half-handed, hear ya?! Canna fang owt it, aye? Get out, kidda, back to yer lazy-arse fadder!"

 _And every bob made on the job you'll pay with flesh and blood…_

Life isn't fair. Life just…isn't fair.

He knew going home without having been paid would earn him a flaying, so he took the longest route back to the house, just stalling the inevitable. For the first time of many times to come, he stuffed his hand, now throbbing with shards of glass still inside, deep in his coat. It would become his automatic response through years of unscreamed pain and unshed tears, the thing that he did when his throbbing heart was struck dumb.

And his father, drunk as usual, had been the first to yank him in the door and demand the money. When it was obvious he didn't have it, and reason for this was that he dropped a bottle and hurt his hand, all hell broke loose. He had been thrown against the wall and cuffed until he was dizzy, with the blood running down his fingers.

"Good for nothing son of a bitch! Yer no son of mine! Yer witch of a mother cuckolded ya! Damn yer eyes, yer no son of mine!"

"Tobias, stop, stop, he _is_ your son…" His mother had protested feebly, wringing her hands, but doing nothing more to stop the beating.

Finally, the cornered boy exploded. "I hate you! I hate you!" he screamed. "I'll come back and kill you someday! I will! I swear I will!"

His father sneered at the threat. "Oh, you will, will you?"

Then all Severus remembered was a glass being thrown in his face, and everything feeling tingly and then numb before he blacked out.

The next day, bruised and cut up, he had tried going back to school. It was a horrible idea, as his hand was so bad off he could hardly hold a pen, and the other children snickered over his swollen face. He knew his father would try and make him go back to the factories sooner or later. He couldn't bear the thought. He wanted to get away, but felt too bad off to do so. He just wanted to snap himself out of the fogginess he felt eating away at his mind…either that or give in to it, and let it swallow up his troubles.

So at lunch break he bolted out of the school and staggered out to the edge of the woods. He didn't half know what he was doing at first, but he knew one thing: he had something in his pocket from his father's room. It was a razor. And it was sharp. That was all he knew. He couldn't even remember taking it, but he knew he must have, for it was with him now.

And taking it out of his pocket with trembling hands, he had tested the edge with his finger. Yes, it was sharp. He felt the sting and the little trickle of blood. It felt strangely good to him, like something finally was stronger than the haze. He inhaled and let the blade cut a little deeper. More pain. Was it becoming an addiction? He let the razor slip slowly down his palm, toward his wrist…

"Severus!"

He jerked back. Of course, it was Lily.

"What are you doing?! Put that down!"

"It's none of your business!" he spat out, all the anger inside going in a direction he did not want it to. "Just stay away from me! Go back with your… _friends_ …"

"Severus…"

"I'm not your friend, I'm bad, I'm very bad…now go on, go away!" He was clutching the blade now and blood was running down his freshly injured hand.

"Severus, no!" She pounced on top of him and they wrestled together on the ground as she struggled to yank the razor away from him. Then she yelped in pain as the blade slipped and ran along her thumb. Severus froze and finally released his hold on it, letting it fall to the ground.

"I…I'm sorry…I…I didn't mean to…" His lower lip started to tremble seeing the blood dripping down her thumb. "Please…please…I didn't mean to, honest…"

"Severus," she choked, seeing the terror throttling him. "Oh, what have they done to you?"

He was shivering, and closed his eyes tight. "I just…want to end it…I don't want…to hurt…" He stuffed his wounded hand into the pocket of his trousers, his nerves fraying. "Don't want…to hurt…you…or anyone…" He shuddered. "I…I…dream about it…sometimes…"

"About what, Sevy? Tell me…"

He opened his eyes, but looked past her instead of meeting her gaze. "I'm just…bad, Lily. And I can't…shake it…and it hurts…everyone…" He bit his lip. "We shouldn't be friends…no, no, we mustn't be…"

"But we _are_ , Sev," she whispered, tears sparkling in her eyes. "We're best friends."

"You can have any friends you want," he countered. "You don't need me to…do the things we do together…even the magic stuff, you can go off and learn about it on your own…and…and even your mum said…" He shut his eyes again, and this time his own tears spilled over and ran down his cheeks. "I'm…dirty, Lily. And it's dark. And I can't see through, I can't…"

"Severus," she pleaded. "Look at me!" She clutched at his collar. "Look at me!"

Slowly, dark eyes met emerald green ones. They felt like aloe vera on open wounds, cooling, healing.

"When you hurt an awful lot, and you're scared of the dark," she murmured, "just look me in the eyes. They'll always be there for you." She flung her arms around his neck. "Hug me, Sevy."

"I…I'm afraid…" He feared the act of touch as a gateway to pain.

"Oh, don't be…please don't be…" She pressed her face into his shoulder, and very slowly, very gingerly, he wrapped his arms around her back, linking his trembling hands to make them stop shaking. She was warm and soft…it felt good to feel something that did not make him shrink away.

She pulled him up and added, "Don't you still believe in Hogwarts?"

"Yes…of course," he confirmed. "You'll get your letter to go there in a year's time…you'll see."

"Well, then we won't be freaks anymore," she giggled. "We can be together as much as we want, with no complaints from anyone. No parents, no Petunia, no school bullies who can't understand magic. Nothing will get between us there. We'll be…the Cokeworth Coalition!"

Now Severus smiled, just a little. "I'll…make you proud of me, Lily."

"Right now just make me proud by eating something," she insisted, pulling out a paper bag. "You look terrible."

Somehow Lily seemed to think a peanut butter and jelly sandwich would cure all ills. But in some strange way, he rather felt like, temporarily, it did just that. Somehow food never tastes so good as when you almost just killed yourself. Then she started busying herself wrapping up his bloody hand with her handkerchief. And then somehow or other he found himself resting his head on her shoulder while she sang an old Welsh song about working into the night upon the loom…and he drifted off to sleep.

Later in February, on Snape's birthday, his mother had feebly tried to wish him a happy day, and even presented him a bit of bread and butter she'd been saving, which surprised him, as they usually went without breakfast. She even knelt down next to him for a moment, and just let her hand rest on his shoulder. He had awkwardly moved his own hand to her arm, not sure exactly what to expect. He still resented her for not standing up to his father more forcefully for him, and yet…he was suddenly feeling the rather primal urge to hug her, even if he was too old for it…

Then the door opened, and Eileen Snape quickly stood up and backed away from her son. Tobias was back, and he wasn't happy.

"What are you feeding the brat extra for? What did he do to earn it, huh?" With that, he thrust the plate of bread off the table, and it fell butter side down on the floor.

"Tobias…can't you leave him be, for one blessed day?" Eileen pleaded

"What? 'Cause it's his _birthday_?" he challenged his wife. Then he glared at his son. "Only snotty-faced little girls celebrate birthdays, ya runt! Get out of here, before I give it to ya!"

After a hard day at school, Severus went off to meet Lily as usual, and she invited him over to her house. He had not wanted to go, realizing that her mother had become increasingly disapproving of their friendship. But she told him that her parents were off at one of Petunia's ballet recitals, and today was open house day. So he finally relented and went along with her.

When they went into her kitchen, he found himself surprised by the site of a chocolate cake set up on the table. She stood next to it proudly, smiling from ear to ear. "Happy birthday, Severus!"

Young Snape blinked. "You…you made that…for me?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "It's a little bit lopsided, I know, but that's all Petunia's fault. She was practicing her ballet, and jumping about, and it sort of jostled it in the oven. But I hope it tastes better than it looks."

She ushered him into one of the kitchen chairs and promptly tucked a napkin into his collar. Then set up two paper plates for them and started cutting two large slabs of cake. "It's got raspberry filling," she added, obviously pleased with herself. "Oh, I forgot to get the candles! Oh, dear…"

"No, it's alright," he assured her, still utterly astonished. "It's…it's…perfect."

He remembered that he had eaten that piece of cake rapidly, as if he was afraid it might be taken away from him, and she had clicked her tongue like a fretting older sister. "You've got frosting all over…here!" She rubbed it off his face with his napkin, giggling as she did so. "There, that's better, isn't it?"

He looked at her, smiling at him, the light in her green eyes dancing like the sunlight through the window. It made her hair shine like a cardinal's wing, and his dark brown eyes softened and then unexpectedly filled with tears.

"Oh…Sevy…"

He couldn't help himself, and flung his arms around her neck in an impulsive embrace. He couldn't remember the need to cry ever coming upon him so suddenly, but it was as if his heart had overflowed and was running down his cheeks. And caught in the clutches of past pains and present joys, he found himself letting the suppressed sobs escape him, which he was usually so good at burying inside.

"Shhh…there, there," she soothed him, her arm around his back, and his head against her shoulder. "Lily's here…Lily's right here…"

"No one…ever made me…a cake before," he murmured. "I guess…I don't deserve it, but…"

"Oh…oh, dear Sev…" She pulled him tighter against her. "You deserve lots of cakes. You're clever and understanding and kind…" She sniffled, her own eyes starting to water. "Please don't cry…please…it's your birthday…you're not supposed to cry…" She swallowed back hard. "If you cry, I'll cry too…see?"

He leaned up a little. "I…I don't want you to cry, Lils. It's just…" He squeezed her once more. "I thought…I wanted to die…and now…this…this is the best birthday ever…"

 _A humming sound was in his ears now, his adult ears, radiating through his memories, breaking them, waking him up. A wand's song. No, no…he didn't want to wake up…he wanted to go back to when he was happy…when he had cried out of sheer, unbounded joy for still being alive, and loved…_

Snape opened his eyes, but something felt strange. It had been dark the last time he closed them, he knew, but now the darkness felt denser. And his eyes…they burned in the sockets, like hot coals…

"Potter?" he queried to the night.

"Yeah, it's me," confirmed the voice near the buzzing wand. "Sorry it took so long to get back here. I didn't realize they were going to confine me to hospital, and then drug me up so I could sleep off the dizziness…"

"Is your wand on?"

"What…?"

"Your wand…is it lit?"

"Of course, can't you…?" Harry paused, his words lodging in his throat. He stretched out a hand in front of the man's face, and moved it back and forth in front of his eyes.

Snape sensed what was being done, and snatched Harry's wrist. "That was stupid," he hissed. "That was very stupid, Potter." Then he thrust his arm away from him.

"Snape, I…"

"It is what it is, no pity needed," he blurted. "I knew it was coming. The first time I woke up after being bitten, I knew…I knew what the venom would do. It was only a matter of time."

Harry felt a sick, sick feeling grip hold of his stomach. He didn't know how to begin to say when he was feeling. How can one shrug off the worth of sight, and all the gifts it brings? Losing it is like losing life…especially for one so dedicated to the written word…

"But…your books…" the boy started.

"What? Have the books gone blind too?" Snape chortled dryly. "Or have you? No. They can still read the souls of men, and you can still read them. They are for your eyes now. Mine are burnt out. One does not read such things in hell anyway…"

But they were his books… _his…books_ …

Being unable to read them was the beginning of hell itself.

And though he would never say it, though he would fight never to let it show, the realization that the shield had been thrown up between himself his own blessed, faraway world of paper and ink gave him a foretaste of the eternal ending of all good that was coming, and coming fast.

And he was afraid.

Yes. Afraid of the dark…


	13. Chapter 12: A Word of Advice

Chapter 12: A Word of Advice

Snape's blindness only made his mood sink further into darkness. Harry tried to do what he could for him, but of course that only made things worse; the incorrigible man interpreted every attempt at consideration as an act intended to humiliate him, intended to extend a half-hearted, contemptuous pity which he could not abide. It was almost as if their past weeks of bonding had gone down the drain, and they were right back to square one.

It came to a head when Harry tried to help him with a bowl of oatmeal. The concept that he needed assistance getting the spoon to his mouth had rankled to such an extent, he had deliberately flipped it over on the boy.

"Damn you, is that the thanks I get for just trying to be decent to you?" Harry blurted.

"Then if you don't like it, get out, why don't you?" Snape spat. "Get out, and don't come back, you damned Marauder's spawn, get out!"

"Fine! Have it your way!" Harry shouted. "I'm certainly not wasting any more time and strain on you! I'm going for good, and you can bloody well enjoy yourself, dying all alone!"

 _Dying alone_. It hit with the same thumping realization as the door slamming shut as Harry left. He always had assumed that would be the way his life would end, knowing fully the extent of disconnection from everyone and everything. But now…but now…

Now the boy was gone. Gone for good and no returning. Was that not what Snape had wanted for so many years…to cast out his enemy's child? He felt a chill run through him. _He had done it again._ In his pride, he had banished the only person in the world who he had any connection to whatsoever. It seemed to be his most consistent talent…making people leave him behind.

He found his crushing thoughts drifting back to 5th year, the year of his final break with Lily. When he had gotten off at the station in Aberdeen, he wondered…he wondered if he should go over to her, if she still would want him to. He had not seen her since the spring when her father had pulled them apart and told him that he had gone bad.

Indeed, he was now questioning whether he really wanted to go over to her himself. He had spent more and more time with his Slytherin cohorts, and sensing his grief at the cruel separation, they had put the pressure on him to move on from her, that he had great things in his future, far surpassing that of any muggle-born. But though his head had been nigh deluded by their words, his heart could not be.

But before he could approach her that day, he had seen saw her standing there on the platform with James Potter.

"Oh, go on, don't tell me I haven't shown you a good time in Cardiff, because I know I did," James was crowing.

"Well then, if you're so sure, you don't need an affirmation from me," she retorted slyly.

"Come on, be nice to me; I spent a pretty penny showing you a good time every night."

"Yes, and it was fun, and you were better company than I thought you'd be, and I thank you," she admitted, yet maintained some reserve.

"So you like me a little bit then, hmm?" James arched his eyebrows.

"I rather thought you were more interested in courting my parents' approval," she noted "You seem to have quite won them over."

"Hey, just that flawless Potter charm I guess," he beamed.

"And bank account," she slipped in.

James shrugged. "You're just being a prude because you're still moping over Mr. Tall, Dark, and Greasy."

She looked at him sternly. "James, you promised you wouldn't…"

"Oh, wake up, Lily! He's got you under some sort of a spell if you can't see him as everyone else does!"

"I know Severus," she stated. "You don't."

"Okay, so I don't know him, and I don't care to figure him out either. He gives me the creeps."

"That's just infantile."

"Oh, yeah?" James challenged. "Well, maybe it's no coincidence that your parents feel the same way. And almost everyone else who comes into contact with the slithery git, except for his delightful Slytherin associates."

"He's just…trying to find his way."

"And you've signed on to be his perpetual guardian angel?"

"I – am - his _friend_."

"Maybe so, but is he really yours? I bet he's snickering all kinds of things about you behind your back with his pure-blood pals."

"Severus would never do anything to hurt me."

Even as she said it, though, Snape detected a hint of question in her voice that made him feel instantly ill. If she could not manage to trust him, than who ever would?

"You just watch him, Lily; I'm convinced he'll show his true colors soon enough to you. And I'll be there to catch you when he pushes you away."

"How gallant of you," she muttered.

He smiled at her teasingly, and then promptly yanked her close and stole a kiss. She turned red and raised her hand to him. But he was smiling still. And her look was one of secret pleasure that makes one feel ashamed. Her face beet red, she turned away, and then spotted Severus watching at a distance. But before she could come near to him in any effort at an explanation, Snape turned and walked away from her…

This just led the way down the days to the moment when it all fell apart, when in the midst of his humiliation, wounded pride, and shattered spirit, as Potter's Marauders taunted him and suspended him with their wands and hung him upside down, he had lashed out at her as she tried to defend him. Why had he done it? Because for the first time, her words felt halfhearted, patronizing, something done out of duty…nothing deeper…

And everything the Slytherins had told him stuck in his mind…she was tainted, tainted by her muggle birth…after all, was it not her muggle parents who had made him out to be dirt? But the pure-bloods, they recognized the greatness in him, they would raise him high above all memory of such things…she didn't care about him, she was going to go off and leave him for a rich, charming, shallow suitor, and abandon him to his own demons…she was going to do it, he knew she was…

And all his anger had flown out of him in force, and he had spit out, "I don't need your help, _mudblood_!"

There. He had said it to her. The term of utmost contempt, of disrespect, of scathing disregard. And as soon as it struck, and he saw the look of shock and sorrow come to that beautiful freckled face of hers, he wished himself dead for uttering it. But there was no chance to tell her that…no, by the time the taunting spell was broken, and he found himself dropped hard on the ground, she had already run off in tears.

The days that followed had been torture for Snape. He wanted desperately to apologize for what he had said in his flush of passion, but Lily was too hurt and confused to face him in the aftermath. She avoided him, day in and day out, almost seeming to wish that he didn't exist.

Then Snape made the error of trying to trail her. He was insecure and panicking and guilt-ridden, and just wanted desperately to talk to her and apologize to her and get it off his chest. But what she really needed was time to be alone, some space away from him to sort out her mind.

If he had allowed her, perhaps she might have in fact calmed down and been able to accept a sincere if imperfect attempt at an apology. In truth, he would have made any concession to repair the damage. Perhaps it might have worked itself out in some way, after all…

But he could not stop himself, and it all came to a head one afternoon when he caught up to her in a hallway between classes. Neither one of them was thinking straight; they were both far too young and emotionally overwrought for that. All he could do was beg.

"Lily, PLEASE...let me talk to you..."

"No, no! I don't want to hear anything! Leave me alone!" She tried to turn away from him, but he grabbed her arm to keep her from running off.

"Lily, won't you let me even say how sorry I am…?"

"No! I don't believe you!" she screamed. "You don't care about me at all…you think of me like…like a worthless old coat, too comfortable to get rid of…or worse, like dirt to be walked over, just like you think of all muggle-borns…"

"It's…not true…"

"Yes, it is true… you want to live in a world of power and blood purity at the cost of everyone and everything else…everything we meant to each other, don't you see? They've turned you into something awful, and I'm afraid…"

Just then, James turned the corner and bellowed, "Hey you, get your damn greasy Slytherin hands off her!"

Before Snape could respond in any way, he was knocked down via a blast from Potter's wand.

"I told you, Lily," James trumpeted, standing in front of her protectively. "Now he's grown dangerous…"

Snape forced himself up on his hands and spat, "I didn't DO ANYTHING TO HER, you lying bastard!"

Realizing that the situation was fast intensifying and someone was bound to get hurt, she tried to pull Potter back. "James, it's alright, really, he didn't hurt me or anything..."

"Of course I didn't _hurt you_ ," Snape blurted, struggling to his feet, and feeling broken by the very thought of Lily considering him capable of it.

James hissed, "You keep your damned dark arts to yourself, and stop stalking young ladies like Jack the Ripper!"

"I – was not – _stalking_ …ANYONE."

"Yes, you were! You have been this whole week, and don't deny it! It's because you're obsessed with her! You want to destroy her life just so she can pleasure you! You're going down, and you want to pull her down with you!"

"SHUT UP!" At that, Snape drew out his wand menacingly, and prepared to strike with all the force of his wrath. "I…am going to _kill_ …"

But then Lily threw herself in the path of the curse before it could be uttered, and her eyes were wide with horror. "STOP! Stop it, you evil boy!"

Snape froze in the midst of his fury, struck as if by a mortal blow, and lowered his wand.

"I can't stand it anymore, I can't!" she shrieked, experiencing a visible emotional meltdown. "I'm done with you and your dark world, Severus Snape! I'm done making excuses and defending you! Don't ever try to talk to me again!"

Snape tried to swallow, but it stuck. "Lils…" The term of endearment bled off his lips, and his voice was shattered, aching.

She herself was obviously shattered, aching, and the tears starting to fall down her cheeks. "I'm going…I have to go…I can't do it anymore, I just can't…can't bear it…can't stay…have to go…"

Her face bore a look crossed between anguish and exhaustion, and even…was that fear? That hurt Severus worse than anything imaginable. For if his Lily had come to fear him…if she had lost her will to love him…then he was truly and forever lost.

As she took off down the hall, her sobs still echoing at a distance, Snape felt as if all his strength had been siphoned, and he leaned against the wall with a shudder. Then he saw Potter's face…and there was a satisfied smirk on it.

"Snivelus, you just saved me a lot of trouble," he declared. "You win the award for best plan and execution to turn off a girl to your abundant charms."

Snape could barely breathe, but he choked out, "You did this deliberately, didn't you?"

"No, you did it for me, all of your own free will."

Snape squinted. "Is it all just a little game for you, or do you love her at all?"

"In fact, I do love her," Potter stated. "Probably have since she started…coming into her own, if you take my meaning. The fact that I could get her away from a slimy git like you didn't hurt, either."

Severus squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't think… you know what it means…to _love_ , Potter."

"What? And you do?" James challenged. "Don't play holy-roller with me, demon's bait; you should have your mouth washed out with something far stronger than soap. It'll be easier than dealing with your heart; that's too black to ever come clean."

Snape wanted to shout back, but he couldn't, he couldn't, not as all his own mistakes flashed through his mind and gleefully laid him low. So he just staggered off, speechless and distraught, and Potter called after him, warning him away from going anywhere near Lily, unless he wanted to face him off. The threat didn't move him. But the realization that she didn't want anything further to do him did. So…he just silently succumbed…to being alone…

And now, blind and bitter, he was alone again.

It felt like forever had passed by, weighed down by a sinking realization of worthlessness at the heart of despair, when the sound of the door creaking open met his ears again.

"What are you doing back?" Snape snapped.

"I…collected some plants with healing properties for the hospital. But as you know, I'm not exactly an expert at this."

"Having personally stamped a failing grade on any number of your pathetically constructed papers, I can corroborate that general point."

Harry exhaled. "So…are you going to tell me what's what so I don't poison somebody?"

"In case you're too dense to acknowledge the full ramifications of my condition, my optical capacities are nonexistent."

The boy huffed contemptuously for dramatic effect. "And I thought you were some sort of expert."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you were anything more than a half-baked crazy professor, you'd know these plants by second nature…you'd be able to identify them, even by touch alone!"

Snape's blind eyes glinted with fury. "Miserable scumbag, I'll teach you…"

"Yes, by all means, prove your mettle, and teach me what these plants are for!" Harry emptied out the bag of his findings on the folding table next to the bed.

Snape snatched out his hand and ran his fingers along the leaves and stems and blossoms of the given plants. He took his time about it, and then blurted out in a run-on sentence, "Marsh Fern, Black Spleenwort, Wall-rue, Wolf's-bane, monk's-hood, purple clematis, creeping buttercup, and river moss..."

"You see," Harry said quietly. "You're not so very blind after all."

Snape froze, all at once struck by the boy's true intent. He was just trying to help him, to give him back a measure of his pride, even after Snape had been so coarse and crude with him earlier in the day. And he found himself…silently appreciating it.

Solemnly, he touched the petals of an ice-blue flower. "This is used…for the staunching of wounds, packed into the bandaging to stop the blood flow and reduce swelling. It's also used for making flavored tea. It blooms in the first week of April…" Snape stopped, thinking. "Then according to this year's calendar, this would be…the week leading up to Easter?"

"I suppose so," Harry conceded.

Snape's hand squeezed the flower automatically, and some of the blue liquid ran down his palm. "I know so."

 _Let the wind blow, let the waters know, tell the earth, the stars, the sun…_

"There has never been an Easter when nature's moanings did not make it known to me."

 _The appointed hour has come…_

Snape shook the meaning and the memories off of him, and moved on to the next object on the folding table. "And this…this is a wrapper…from a cereal bar…which I gather was blueberry cobbler flavored…" He grimaced in disgust. "Littering on Hogwarts grounds costs ten points to the house of any students responsible. Therefore…ten points from Gryffindor."

"Hey, I didn't do it! If anything, I'm an anti-litterbug, since I retrieved it!"

"Granted, but it had to be a Gryffindor…reckless, irresponsible…"

"The true qualities of a reprobate candy bar consumer," Harry exhaled. "However, it should be noted that Hufflepuff holds the distinction for highest junk food intake, so it was more likely one of them."

"No Hufflepuff would have a strong enough stomach to go hiking through that danger-fraught forest whilst cheerfully munching snack food, so…has to be Gryffindor."

Harry sighed. "If it will somehow put you in a better mood after your little tirade this morning, I'm willing to concede."

Snape blinked. "I told you to go away. You said you would. You should have really stuck to that bargain."

"I…couldn't."

"Why not?"

"I told you, it was…plants. You know, walking in the woods…and…plants. Someone had to sort them out for me so I didn't get locked up for poisoning people in hospital."

A long silence fell between them, a knowing silence. "Tell me…about the day," Snape broke in unexpectedly. "What was it like outside?"

"It was…sort of sunny," Harry offered.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You can do better than that."

Harry exhaled. "I'm probably not going to be very good at this sort of thing."

"Just tell me…what left an impression on your eyes," he clarified. "Tell me what lingers on in your mind…shapes, colors…light and shade…"

Oh. Now it made sense. Wanted Harry's eyes, which reminded him so much of his mother's, to serve as his own.

"It was…one of those days where the wind was blowing warm, and the clouds kept shifting across the sun. They were…big, white clouds that had an underbelly of gray, like they were holding rain inside them. It rained a little bit, but really soft, and it made this pattering sound against all the leaves, and they turned darker green. And the wind blew it off, and then the sun broke through the clouds again. All the water that coated everything sparkled when the light ran across it…" Harry inhaled, wondering if Snape was going to mock his efforts, but decided to just ramble on till he was cut off. "I like to look at the open sky, out beyond the woods. It's like…there's no border to it, just a sea of blue, and the clouds, sometimes they look like sails moving along, all white and gray. I never had that in London. I always used to think that if I had a real home, it would be out where I could see the sky, but…I don't know. Sometimes I feel lost in it out here, and it almost scares me…like it's seen so many horrible things, maybe it'll just remember me as part of it all, and swallow me up or something…" He smiled wryly. "Okay, you can commence telling me how lame all that was and how crazy I am."

There was a look on Snape's face hard to identify. Then he said lowly, "Potter, take a word of advice. As soon as McGonagall has gotten things in basic order, leave this place…leave it for good."

Harry blinked. "You mean, leave just Hogwarts, or…?"

"You know what I mean," he countered. "Leave…all of it." He exhaled. "Sometimes I think we taught so much magic in this place, we neglected to…make you _see_. There are other things to learn, Potter, other things to…understand."

"But you hate muggles," Harry reminded him. "You always have."

Snape closed his eyes. "If you stay…in this place, you will become their savior and slave, Potter. They will raise you on such a high pedestal, you will never be able to climb down, and they will move you across their chess board as they see fit. This world…is _dying_. It is clinging to life in whatever ways it can. They will bleed you dry like a leech, if they get at you. They will use you to play politics, to keep their petty powers sustained."

"The ministry already asked me to…affirm their power, to calm the populace," Harry admitted.

"You see? They won't let you…really _live_ , Potter. There is no future for you here, unless you work for them and their broken, useless powers that can dry up in a twinkling and leave you with nothing but cracked, parched earth. Go out, away from here. Go, before it collapses in, and crushes all beneath its shadow." Snape inhaled. "I know, damn well, how it can crush…you fight to climb so very much, you break yourself with the pen in hand, and the late nights running together, and they won't take you if you be rough in the tongue or with the scent of chemicals on your clothes…they won't take you fair, if you've bruises about the face and a poor penny in your pocket. They won't take you, and you have to take whatever scraps fall, and then they drag you under, some way or other, as sure as the stairs will trip you up. But it is not just for the hard brought up…it is for the well-reared too. The magic counts for nothing in the end, Potter; it is farce and show, manipulated by men grown too full of themselves to contain it, and who use all the world as a stage for their plays. And God's grave, they beat _you_ out of _you_!"

And for once, Harry heard something break through that voice of his, always so perfectly restrained, falling into lockstep with the codes of the Queen's English. He heard the rough and tangled underbrush of the Midlands pushing its way through the cracks, with the rough and untamed accent of hard living, of hard work and the fiery willingness to rise above being squelched by the stagnant waters of a system long since run its course, devised to break the spirits of free men, of those whose voices had been stifled in an effort to become something other than their true selves.

And in Snape's eyes, darker than the factory smoke, there seemed to blaze the strange reality of finding one's hidden self after so many years forcing it down, deeper down with each passing year. But now it was rising, the crux of himself, and those eyes, with sightless flames in them, screamed "REBEL."

Harry swallowed, then nodded. "I'll…consider what you've said."

"You do that. And when you finally come to your senses, take that girl with you."

"Er…what girl?"

"What girl do you think? Haven't you started going about with the know-it-all yet?"

Harry snorted. "Hermione is going out with Ron!"

"What…?"

"For a headmaster, you've been keeping very bad tabs on the romantic end of Hogwarts culture…"

"For record, I was never particularly keen on being headmaster of this wretched place to begin with," he clarified. "The post came only under duress by a horcrux-possessing psychopath, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but I thought you had some inkling of the goings-on…"

"So you're just going to let this travesty unfold?"

"Huh?"

"Weasley and Granger… _seriously_?"

"They came to an understanding, Snape," Harry exhaled. "Who am I to butt in?"

"You're the one she's had eyes for, this whole time," he stated.

"I…don't believe that…"

"And you've had eyes for her." Snape clicked his tongue. "Think I was so very blind all this time, do you? I knew you would make a thoroughly obnoxious pair when you finally saw clear to each other…"

"It was always a trio," Harry corrected him.

"Eh, a third wheel," Snape scoffed.

"Since when have you taken up the role as on-campus cupid?"

"I am simply telling you what you already know. You need that conceited, wild-haired little she-wolf by your side to keep your head on straight, and she needs you…to have something to…nurture, I suppose. Or else, beat into shape."

"What, and she can't nurture Ron?"

"Fine, you can both adopt him."

Harry couldn't help but laugh a little here. "Yeah, but did I mention I was going out with Ginny Weasley for a while?"

"That's…off."

"Why? What do you have against Ginny?"

"First off, she's too young for you, and secondly she's…nondescript."

"And you just said Hermione was obnoxious, and you treated her terribly through most of your classes!"

Snape grumbled. "She is obnoxious…intolerable, actually. Mark my words, she'll turn into one of those intelligentsia female liberation sign-carrying types, protesting everything, and being a waking nightmare for her husband…"

"Then if that's your chauvinistic perspective on her, why are you trying to foist her on me?"

At this Snape actually made a wicked half-grin, and Harry buried his face in his hands exasperated. "Why do I ask these things?"

"You richly deserve each other, Potter, let's face it," Snape concluded. "Whatever else she may be, she has sharp enough skills to make a man out of you, while the little Weasley chickadee only has worshipful stardust in her eyes when every time you enter a room. And…" He paused for a moment, and a certain strain of melancholy crossed his face. "It's easy enough to let the things you really want in life…slip by, failing to realize it until they're gone beyond recall."

"Sometimes it's not that easy to know what you really want," Harry reminded him.

"If there is any trace of authentic love, that rarest of realities to be grasped at, you will know it," Snape assured. "If it truly exists, there is no second guessing it. It will wound you deep, and you will never heal from it."

"They say time is supposed to heal all wounds," Harry retorted.

"Time cannot heal wounds based in eternity, and you should never wish for such a healing. There are two parts of oneself…the first level, the part we refer to and call by name, the part that we mark down on transactions of paper and ink, the part that changes from minute to minute, nothing of which can last forever, for it is based in time. Then there is…the second level, which we rarely pay any heed. If something sinks into that level, it becomes a part of all that is eternal, and can never be rooted out."

Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of this latest analysis on the nature of love, something which, until recently, Harry was sure this man was quite incapable of experiencing or extending much less understanding in such depth.

"So what's your big hypothetical plan for me to completely transform the entire current romantic trend?" the boy queried, rolling his eyes. "Challenge Ron to a wand duel or what?"

"Talk to the Granger girl."

"What's that supposed to…?"

"Just…talk to her." He grew serious. "Look her in the eyes. You'll know by the look in them what you should do."

"Eh…I'm not making the first move. If she really wants to switch things up, she's gonna have to do the switching. I'm not being a romance or friendship wrecker."

Snape blinked. That…that wasn't like his father at all…

"All I ask is that you remember…to keep your eyes _open_ ," he counseled him.

"I'll…work on it," Harry conceded. "So…can we change the topic yet?"

"Change the topic…to what?"

"So, like…how did you make that flavored tea stuff you were talking about?"

And so they talked. They talked about very random things until it was very late, but Harry didn't seem inclined to leave. Finally Snape spoke up.

"Is it just me, or have you been here for a long time?"

"Yeah," Harry admitted. "About…five hours."

"What time is it?"

"Closing on midnight, I think." Harry rubbed his eyes. "I had no idea I could talk that long. I guess I'm just tired. Tired people talk a lot because they forget when to stop. Lose track of time."

"What's been the main topic of conversation anyway?" Snape demanded. "It all feels jumbled…"

"Uh…plants, remember?" Harry mumbled. "Getting a real job, flavored tea…the way the sun can paint an open sky…"

"I remember…you said the wind blew the clouds back, and the sun kept glinting, off and on…" Snape gasped oddly, then cleared his throat to cover it.

"You alright?" Harry asked.

"Never felt more alive, for being half-dead."

"You're not dead yet," he countered. "I'll know the end has come when you do something bizarre, like call me by my given name or some such breach of protocol. Then…it's over."

"You'll have an eternal wait for that," he grumbled.

"Fine with me," Harry mollified him, starting to quietly head over to check his patient's neck. He used his wand as a light to observe, and what he saw disturbed him. It had swollen a lot since the day before, and had taken on a strange purple color. He made the mistake of deciding to prod it. Snape jerked at the pain, obviously having been unaware Harry had gotten that close to him.

"Don't…do that!" he sputtered. "You know I can't see you!"

"Calm down, will you? I'm just trying to take a look…"

"I don't need you…to look at it!"

Harry rolled his eyes, and muttered a Latin incantation whilst flicking his wand accordingly.

"Did you just conjure up…ice?" Snape queried.

"It is known to help with swelling, you know," Harry responded, pressing the ice bag against his neck.

"Och…" His patient reacted to the cold and the pain. "What are you turning into, Potter, a bloody American?"

In spite of himself, Harry started giggling. Maybe it was all the emotional intensity he had been through, or the medication for his slight concussion. But whatever the reason, he was finding Snape terribly funny tonight.

"Why are you cackling like a maniacal magpie?"

This monotone inquiry did nothing to halt his laughing fit. In fact, it added fuel to the fire.

Snape sighed, pulled Harry down slightly with a mechanical tug on his shirt, and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. "As I suspected," he announced, pushing him back up. "Your already addled mind is now overheating. You should be in bed, young man."

"How many times do you think you've told me I should be in bed when I can't sleep?" Harry challenged. "It's like the story of our lives…"

"A sleeping Potter is generally easier to keep out of trouble, and more intellectually adept, than an awake Potter, I've observed."

Harry shook his head, but still had a somewhat giddy smile on his face. "It would be a dream come true if I got paid every time I put up with a snide remark! I would be the wealthiest wizard in the country!"

"Dream on. Seriously, do…in your own bed, away from here." He swatted him in the stomach. "Go on, disappear, vanish…make yourself invisible."

"Okay, okay," Harry conceded, standing up and heading towards the door. Then he turned his head back briefly. "Thanks…for figuring out those plants, and…the talk."

"Apparently there wasn't a way to get rid of you for good, was there?"

"Guess not," he shrugged. "But still…your advice…well, I'll be giving it a think."

"So glad you approved," he snorted.

"You're not going to let me say anything nice to you, are you?"

"Not if it can be prevented."

Harry exhaled. "Well…see you tomorrow, I guess."

"If cruel fate must have it."

The young wizard paused for a moment. "Snape," he addressed him quietly, "I…" A long silence cut him off. "I hope I _do_ see you tomorrow. Truly."

He waited for Snape to snap back a retort. But his old teacher only shifted slightly and muttered, "Get some sleep, Potter. You'll feel better in the morning, to be sure."


	14. Chapter 13: Lamentations

_**Greetings, everyone! I just wanted to make this shout out to all those following this story, and thank them so much for their kindness and support. Your comments and reviews have been so appreciated, and have kept me motivated to complete the project. For record, this story is going to be fairly short (I'm aiming for 16 chapters, plus and epilogue). However, the length fits this type of story, which basically was created with the intent of giving Snape two extra weeks to live so that he could face death having come to peace with many of the torrid factors of his life. Needless to say, for those who are not keen on heavy emotional scenes, I would caution them, because the next three chapters + epilogue ARE going to be intense and emotional, and I don't want anyone unduly traumatized! So for those still on board, if you're the types who get effected by bittersweet tear-jerker stories involving character deaths...have hankies on hand! If you prefer lighter, more whimsical HP fare, check out my stories "Harry Potter and the Road Trip to Remember" and "Christmas in Cokeworth." Also, "All in the Family" is a happy ending one shot. ~ Love and Blessings, the Authoress**_

Chapter 13: Lamentations

The next few days were an exercise in weakening. The venom was sapping strength, like the fangs of the snake itself had drawn blood, and Snape felt too tired to talk much or shoot out more than a few of his trademark sarcasms. He grew quiet, too quiet and withdrawn to be recognized, and slept more and more often. He fell in and out of it, often confused in his waking, and always asking whether it was day or night. And it seemed the boy was almost always there to answer. He would tell him the time and the day of the week, and then if he requested it, describe the kind of day it had been, with whatever verbal painting techniques he could manage.

Harry had asked tried on multiple occasions if Snape wanted to try and seek help at the hospital, assuring that he would personally explain the whole situation and get things sorted out properly, but Snape always flatly refused. It was a hopeless case, the professor insisted; he knew the nature of the venom coursing through him almost better than any man, and it was no use trying to cheat the inevitable. Furthermore, he knew human nature to well; Dumbledore's death and the tortures committed by the Carrows under his tenure as Headmaster still were on his head. They would not forget that, no matter his excuses, and he did not want to face his last days as a suspect under scrutiny.

That being as it was, Harry felt compelled to be with him at the shack as much as he could now, sometimes just sitting and watching Snape's sleeping patterns, the way he often lay unconscious, his eyes still open, his breathing alternately heavy or hardly perceptible. So much so, in fact, he sometimes thought death had come to him. He would reach out hesitantly and touch his arm, in search of some reaction. And reaction he would get, for roused from sleep, Snape would shrink back like an abused animal accustomed to being struck, and his breathing would become like panting.

"Just me, Snape…it's okay," he would assure him.

Snape, trying quickly to put back up his defenses, would make a derogatory crack, "Just you, hmm? Just…what I always wanted…"

"Yup. Still gotta live with me, I'm afraid."

He'd set him up with his food, usually oatmeal, and Harry would watch as he ate it, slowly. His hand would tremble slightly as he held the spoon, and the boy was tempted to offer assistance again. But he knew Snape would rather starve than be spoon-fed, so this time he held his tongue. When he was finished, Harry would inevitably pick up a book and start to read to him. He chose the poems that Snape had annotated most heavily, the ones that were the richest in language, the ones that made his eyes mist involuntarily when he was too weak to talk.

Harry found that now that his eyes served as Snape's eyes as well, he somehow saw things with a new appreciation. On a sunny afternoon, Harry decided to take a risk of opening one of the shutters in the shack, and let the light of the sun come filtering through, with the scent of spring. They were quiet together for a long time, and there was a profound oneness in that moment deeper than thought.

Then Snape had rasped, "They say that silence…is the deepest form of violence…to any soul…seeking out itself…" His voice drifted out, and he breathed in slowly. "But…there are apple blossoms…in the wood. And hazel…keeps alive…the fire in the head…"

The light from the window fell on the book Harry had open in his lap to Yeats' "Song of the Wandering Aenges", and he saw for the first time the mystical beauty of the ink, forming letters, forming words. And even more beautiful were pen-scratched underlines, rough with passion, and all at once he understood the depth of the man who was dying slowly in his sight. And his eyes followed the words underscored, and he felt him enraptured:

 _"_ _Though I am old with wandering, through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, and kiss her lips and take her hands; and walk among long dappled grass, and pluck till time and times are done, the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun…"_

"Yes," Harry agreed. "And the gorse grows gold, and the heather bright purple, like the sky when it swallows the sun at day's end."

Snape smiled ever so slightly. "I do believe…you have caught the fever, boy. It will never…let you go."

What a strange thing it was…to be finding each other, and losing each other, all at the same time…and it was so hard, so uncertain, learning to trust, deeper, deeper yet, against the odds…

Often enough Harry sensed in Snape a questioning, almost a disbelief, that in his incapacity, the boy would be gentle with him. That his fading sensibilities and the fragility of his condition were not being rubbed in his face, and the pain not compounded by humiliation. No, the boy seemed to have learned, somehow, how to handle it, how to be there as a reassuring presence, without seeking to crush the last vestiges his pride. How different, how very different, from the other Potter he had known…

One day, Harry came in with lunch, and Snape was lying there. He was awake, Harry knew, for he had learned to measure the life within those blind eyes well, but his breathing seemed akin to sleep. And yet, the man was obviously brutally conscious of the way the breaths winded him. It was as if for the first time, he seemed to be counting them out, one by one, with the rising and falling of his own chest, and knowing with the keenest realization they were going to stop sooner than later. It was a scientific surety.

But no one thinks of these things but dying men. Otherwise, it would get in the way of living. And thus, one would never realize just how precious each and every breath was…until it was expended, and run out into nothing. _Nothing._ Was that the end of everything? Harry wondered if it could be so.

"Snape?" Harry addressed him. "I…brought you lunch…"

"No…food," he managed. "Can't…swallow…"

Harry shivered. "Not at all?"

"Not…well," he clarified.

"Think you could try some tea?"

"Just…cough it up…most likely…"

Harry turned his eyes down, and muttered lamely, "It's flavored. Got it from McGonnagall today. Thought you might…like it."

Snape squinted. "What…what's the flavor?"

Harry smiled a little. "You'll have to try it and tell me."

He started setting up the tea mug in front of him, and he helped brace Snape's arm to let him sit up. By now, the bedridden wizard had gotten used to accepting that much help at least, and Harry could feel how thin and weak his arm had grown.

In the process of leaning up, Snape felt something sharp jab into his face and froze. "What the…?" he panted.

"Sorry, you just hit into the straw," Harry told him, feeling awkward at Snape's reaction, as if the man was paranoid about things intentionally injuring him at every turn.

"Straw…?" he repeated blearily.

"Yeah, it'll make it easier to drink that way."

Snape gingerly curled his good hand around the mug, and Harry adjusted the straw.

Slowly, he started to drink from it, aware how easily he could choke himself under the circumstances.

"So what's the flavoring, after all?" Harry queried, nonchalantly fixing the pillow behind Severus so he could lean up better.

"It is…McGonnagal's favorite," he noted, the straw still between his teeth. "Combination of lemon and raspberry zinger…"

Another swallow's worth, and he found himself coughing on it and spitting it up all over himself. Harry winced, then tactfully placed a napkin in Snape's good hand, which the man clutched tremulously and brought to his face.

"I…I told you…uhh…dammit…"

"Well…at least I found out what flavor it was," Harry responded, and helped take the mug away from him.

Snape sighed in a slightly amused way, in spite of himself. "What makes you so…damned optimistic?"

"Maybe you're just pessimistic enough for both of us," Harry offered with a sad partial smile. "You cover your field pretty thoroughly."

Snape shrugged, then winced. He never verbalized pain, but Harry knew when he was in it. And it hurt to know there was little to be done so far along. Snape touched his own face for a moment and felt the stubble on his cheek. "I need…to shave. I want to look…appropriate, for when…"

"I can get what you need," Harry cut him off, knowing what he was going to say and not wanting him to go further. He wanted to look dignified in death. "Just give me a sec, okay?"

Snape nodded, and Harry left. When he returned a half hour later, Snape greeted him traditionally, "That…was technically more…than a 'sec'. Did we not teach you how to measure time in this place…?"

"Oh, quit being so techy," Harry chided him. "It's not good for your health."

"My _health_?" Snape blurted. "Really… _really_ , boy…"

"And now prepare to launch into a lengthy complaint about my razor not being _manly_ enough or something," he rambled, setting up the bowl of water and lathery soap on a folding table he'd assembled.

"I…might," Snape agreed, feeling his way around the objects on the table. He managed to get to the cloth Harry had smeared with the foamy soap, and brought it to his face. Then he reached for the razor. His hand was shaking badly, and nearly dropped it on the floor.

Harry exhaled, seeing catastrophe in the near future. "Here, let me help…"

Snape snorted. "So now...now you think...you can treat me like...like a bloody infant?"

"I don't know about you, but I've never really heard of infants shaving," he shot back. "You're just going to carve yourself like a turkey the way you're going at it."

"I…have done this…right…since you were…strapped in a…bloody stroller!"

"Hooray," Harry exhaled. "What, are you bucking for a medal or something?"

"No, I wanted… _that_ …for saving your golden trio…from a werewolf onslaught," Snape grunted a suitably scathing tone.

"Geez, you have a memory like an elephant," Harry sighed.

"That's because I…have a long list of such…sterling moments."

"Okay, okay, so you saved my hide a lot," the boy admitted. "Thank you, okay? I said it now. Is that what you wanted?"

"No," he snorted. "I want…back pay!"

Harry shook his head in exasperation, and finally managed to get the razor out of his trembling hand. "I'm afraid it'll just have to come in the form of facial hair removal services. Now, come on, it'll be easier for everybody involved if you just lean back and chill. I haven't tried to force feed you, right? Can't you just take it on the chin this once and let me cover something?"

He closed his eyes. "Why…bother?"

"Because…hey, I thought this whole thing was about looking… _together_ ," Harry offered, forcing himself to maintain an upbeat air. "And you're not gonna look together if you shred yourself to bits. It's not a you thing; it's just a venom thing, so stop taking it so personally." He cleaned off the razor in the basin. "Now, just cool out, and don't get all jerky…I'd rather not slit the throat of my first customer as a barber."

"No need for concern; I'm just a snake," he muttered. "They always…get their heads slit off anyway. Isn't that how you said…Nagini was undone?"

"Per the courtesy of one Neville Longbotton."

Severus rolled his eyes. "You can't…mean that."

"Hey, back in the day, you were pretty good at making quick work of snakes yourself, as I recall, even if you apparently lost that talent somewhere along the line. As for Neville, well, he was your student, and he was just picking up the noble tradition where you left off."

"I only became…snake terminator…when you started having freakish conversations with that thing and it almost…took a bite out of you," he declared. "And as for…fraidy-cat, butter-fingered Longbottom…he nearly blew up the lab five times…"

"But now he's a hero!" Harry reminded him. "Maybe after going through classes with you, demonic horcrux snakes didn't seem so threatening."

Snape grumbled under his breath as the younger wizard started shaving him, running the blade along his cheek. The man tightened a little as the razor reached his upper lip.

"Easy," Harry exhaled. "I wouldn't dare cut off your nose, if that's what's bothering you. Have a little faith."

"Schooled…in insolence," he hissed.

"Fluently," Harry concurred.

Snape twitched as the blade started along his other cheek. "No one…had much faith in me, at any rate."

"Dumbledore did," the boy offered quietly.

"No, that wasn't… _faith_ ," Snape countered. "Just…a knowing…I would do the job. He even forgot…why I was doing it all…what it all meant." Snape sighed. "He could have won a follower, you know…a friend, even. But all he got was a slave, bought and sold. He never even bothered, never cared…to try and understand."

"Well, you're a hard one to read. You surprise people a lot," Harry said. "And…you can take that as a compliment."

Snape remained quiet for the remainder of the shave, but Harry sensed that he had indeed taken the compliment after all. The boy wiped off the remaining lather on his face, and had to admit he looked a lot better that way, after all.

"Hard to read," Snape muttered softly after the long interval. "I wonder if…he who branded me…thought that…" A sneer made its way onto his face. "I wanted…so long to see his face…when he found out…"

"He couldn't understand, Snape," Harry responded. "He couldn't understand your reasoning, even to the end."

Snape's face paled. "You told him?"

"Yes, I…I wanted him to know as much as you did. But…he couldn't understand."

"No," Snape conceded. "He only understood…ambition, for pleasure or power…and I had a fatal level of the latter, at any rate, as many young men do."

"Maybe, here and there," Harry conceded.

"This isn't just about…you, it's about…" Snape closed his eyes. "Potter, if you can…use your influence, then…go easy on Draco Malfoy, and the others like him. They…are young, and were sorely misled. They can still…make it through alright, but they must be shown…shown a path worthy of following. They still have…goodness in them."

"But I suppose Voldemort never appealed to that. Only to…well, what you said. Their ambition, to make them his own."

"That's the only part of them he could grasp," Snape stated. "Yes, he could only grasp…struggle, an eternity of it, but never contentment, in himself or anyone else. He could never perceive any shade of deeper realities. And in that, I have learned…to pity him."

Yes, pity, even through the haze of hatred, even as the memories of the last horrible days of the regime assaulted his mind. He remembered the purging of the high command, as the dark lord succumbed to paranoia, fear of his own failure, his own inner knowing that he could be destroyed. Though filled with a wild-eyed ambition himself, he feared the ambitions of others, and how their claws might scratch him down from his mighty chair.

And Snape remembered the petty atrocities, like the day before his own would-be execution, when he was called into the presence of the dark lord to review…a prisoner. All he saw was a boy, aged 14, white with fright, who had been brought to Snape for training in the dark arts just several weeks before.

He had been one of Voldemort's latest recruits, all so young there was no way they could know what they were truly signing. Some had been forcibly torn from their homes, some indoctrinated as Snape had been indoctrinated at that same tender age. Some were bribed, or threatened, or drugged. All of them were desperate, and Snape was given them the job to train them…train them to die like good little soldiers at the behest of an increasingly maniacal monster.

But this one before him, this one with the brown eyes, flecked with gold, had tried to escape.

"My lord, am I to administer the suitable punishment…?" Snape queried in a measured tone.

"I will be the one to deal out the punishment," Voldemort spat.

Snape paused. "I have observed him under training, my lord. He has potential to be…"

"Enough from you, Severus," he snapped. "Now gather together your recruits. I want all to see the punishment treason carries with it."

When the young men were ordered together, and Snape standing staunchly at their head, the ordeal began. Snape had no idea what to expect, save that the dark lord was planning something special. He briefly saw the captured boy's brother in his ranks, saw the way he was clenching his fist. Snape made a point of shoving him behind another boy to avoid undo attention being drawn to him. "Keep your formation, lazy young swine…"

"Have you not taken enough time with your formations, Severus?" the dark lord hissed. His tolerance, Snape noticed, was wearing thinner with each passing day.

"All is in order, my lord," Snape assured calmly.

"Then we may commence." Voldemort turned to the captured boy, who was shaking like a leaf now waiting what was in store for him. A bolt from the dark lord's wand sent him sprawling on the ground. "Now…now watch…Severus, make sure they are all…watching…" He jutted out his chin. "Nagini!"

Snape's heart thudded in his chest. _Not that…no, not that…_

The cold, sterile slithering sound made its way along the tiled floor. Two great glowing eyes penetrated the darkness. The boy on the ground whimpered in terror. And then…the spring. Snape felt the recruits behind him shrink back, some trying to turn their heads away from the horrific spectacle in front of them.

"If they will not watch, Severus, perhaps the only way to put the fear of eternity in them is to let them…share in the experience…"

"They will watch, my lord," Snape panted, and then taking on the stride of a drill sergeant, marching back and forth along the lines, jabbing them in the arms with his wand, and seizing the more reticent ones hard by the chin and forcing their eyes back to the snake sinking its fangs into the 14-year-old's neck, over and over again.

"Eyes to the front, you churls, eyes to the front!" Snape's voice was taking on a tone of anger unusual to it, as he yanked them and shook them and slapped them and forced them to look ahead.

By then the worst was over, and the snake, having had its fill of human blood for the day, was ordered back to its large glass aquarium. The victim was gasping on the ground, dark purple liquid running down his neck, and his face turning a pale green.

"There, you see," Snape forced out, pointing at the dying boy with his wand. "Thus always will it be to traitorous cowards!"

And now the boy was dead. And Snape saw the smirk of satisfaction of Voldemort's face. And he proceeded to shove everyone out of the room. And then Snape staggered off outside for a moment and buried his against the cold brick wall, hands clenched tight, tight, so tight, and the words of William Blake breaking apart in his throat:

"O for a voice…like thunder…and a tongue…to drown the throat of war. When the senses are shaken…and the soul is driven to madness…who can stand? When the souls of the oppressed fight…in the troubled air that rages…who can stand? When sin claps its broad wings over the battlements…and sails rejoicing in a flood of death…when souls are torn…to everlasting fire, and fiends of hell… rejoice upon the slain…oh, _who – can – stand?!_ "

Later that evening, Snape came upon the boy's brother sitting up in a corner of the cold hall, staring blankly in front of him. His fist was still clenched. It reminded Snape of himself at that age, when he would sit alone for hours, thinking, brooding, building up the darkness inside himself that would lead him to this place.

"You, boy," Snape addressed him huskily, and his voice seemed to snap him from his stupor. Their eyes met, and where Severus half hoped he might see the fire of suppressed fury, all he saw was chill indifference of despair.

"We're all going to die…aren't we?" the sixteen-year-old queried.

"It will be as the Dark Lord will have it be," Snape snapped in retort. "You'd be best advised to keep a quiet tongue in your head if you know what's good for you."

The boy exhaled, almost in the form of a broken, brittle laugh. "I…I don't mind…the dying part. Then I won't have to…tell my parents what happened…" He swallowed. "I was supposed to…take care of him."

"The Cause is all there is," Snape reminded him sternly. "Above family, above friends, above the bond of soul to body. You would do best to remember that, boy." He turned to leave.

"Sir," came the teen's voice, wearily.

"What?"

"If I die, and you live, would you…tell them what happened?"

Snape stared at him. "Why would you ask this of me?"

"Because you're the only trainer here who has not…demanded favors," he hissed through his teeth, "or tortured us without cause. The only one who…" He paused, and weighed his words. "Does not… _enjoy_ …"

"Shut your mouth, shut your bloody mouth," Snape snarled. Then he whispered hastily, "Do you not know by now the very walls have ears?"

The boy looked down, realizing he may have gone too far. Then Snape grabbed him roughly by his shoulder and forced him to his feet.

"Come…come with me."

So he made the teen follow him back into room where his brother had been executed, where his blood still stained the floor, and Nagini rested snugly within the great glass aquarium. The boy flushed at the sight.

"Afraid, boy?"

"No."

"Yes, you are. But I'm going to teach you…how not to be." He pointed at the aquarium. "Put your hand upon the glass."

The young recruit hesitated. Then slowly, tremulously, he attempted to do as he had been told. As soon as his palm was against it, the snake struck with a fury against it, and the boy jumped back, panting hard.

"No, boy, no…you must hold it there…like this…"

Snape turned to the snake and held its gaze, as if to bait it, and then laid his hand over the glass. Nagini struck; once, twice, three times. And Snape continued to stare down the serpent, his hand unflinching. He seized the boy's hand with his free one, and pressed it next to his against the glass.

"Now you…hold it there; don't you let this creature know your fear. You have to meet it…on its own terms. It can only hold power over you…if you fear it…"

The boy did his best to hold firm as the snake's head smashed up against the glass, but then something inside him broke, thinking of the horrors he had witnessed earlier that day. Tears started to fill his eyes.

"Stop it, stop it, do you want him to make me kill you? Stop it, damn you, boy!" He shook the young man hard, and spit out, "Listen to me….listen…you can live…live through this…"

"No," the boy blurted. "No, the dark lord is eternal…he can never…"

"He…is only…" Snape inhaled, and yanked to boy towards him, whispering roughly into his ear, " _Only a man_."

He shoved him back and boy looked mystified. "No one…has ever said that before."

Snape shuddered, believing himself to have crossed the line, and stood up to leave.

"Sir, please…" The boy's breath was heaving. "Tell the others that."

Snape laughed wryly.

"They need…to know. They might get through…if only they know that."

"If only…"

"Can you not find a way to tell them? Any way…"

"Severus," came a sultry female voice from the threshold. It was Bellatrix. "The dark lord wishes to speak to us…all of us."

So he had gone to the room where Voldemort held his audience, and listened with all the others as he made his final speech. His words filtered through Snape's mind like sewage through a grate. They ground out the same tired rhetoric of grandeur so fast dissolving all around them, the dreams of glory grown filmy, like blood-splattered glass. Snape questioned whether the Potter boy would truly be able to take down this darkness alone; he questioned if he should have followed his own heart and exacted his own form of vengeance instead of waiting on Dumbledore's devious plan to play out. In that moment, he was not sure of anything, and future seemed foggy. All he could think was that they were all going to die, at the behest of a madman, and nothing might be salvaged…nothing at all…

Then the dark lord did something unexpected. He recited poetry:

"Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me..."

Snape stood there silent as a stone as he quoted the words of John Donne, stood there as he proclaimed the warped meaning he placed upon those words, seeking to prove his own immortality to his assembled followers, including those eager young recruits who would be sent to their doom in a matter of days. And for the first time since his early years when he first came among the death-eaters, full of verve and ambition, he dared to challenge the One he could not name.

"My lord," he addressed him lowly, and all eyes fell upon him. And he stared down those horrible, evil eyes, and continued, "It is not speaking of death…as a thing to be evaded. But as a thing that must be…faced by all."

Voldemort's face was unmoving, frozen it seemed like a sheet of white ice. And then there was a flash, and a current coursing through the air and through Snape's blood. It knocked him to the ground upon impact, and he wondered for a moment if this was simply another session of torture or the final execution.

"How _dare_ you interrupt your master, half-blood son of an Irish bitch! What are you launching? A Paddy's rising?"

Oh…the unspeakable word…the term of contempt he had hidden from for so many years…from the song of the immigrant…used by all, and then…thrown away…

 _"_ _Well, it's by the hush, me boys, and sure that still holds your noise, and listen to poor Paddy's lamentation…"_

Get up, get up, he thought to himself, for they were all watching, all the recruits…had to get up, though the pain was twisting up his stomach and his limbs felt turned to butter…

 _"_ _I was by hunger pressed and in poverty distressed, so I took a thought to leave the Irish nation…"_

He had grown used to the excruciation over the years, come to understand the ebb and flow of it, come to know how he could play it for a fool…he forced himself to rise…first up on his elbows, then pressing up with his hands…

 _"_ _Now here's to you, boys, now go, take my advice, to the stranger's land I'll have you not be going…"_

He was struggling up, up on one knee, though the pain was still streaming through his veins. He knew the length and the breadth of the tortures, and he knew how everyone was watching him, watching if he could get up, if he could make it up…

 _"_ _For there's nothing here but war, where the murdering cannons roar…"_

No one had ever been able to stand in the throes of the curse. Well, then…perhaps this "Paddy" would be the first…he had reached the end of his rope, and a long fuse had all but burned up, and now he was doing it for everyone and everything he had lost, and was about to be lost. This was his payback, for every pain he had endured, for every humiliation, every taunt and torture. For Eileen Prince, whose funeral he never attended. For Lily Evans Potter, dead in his arms…

 _"_ _By Christ, I've had enough of this hard fighting…"_

And he stood. And he stood. Against famine and factory, and the chemicals of cruel fate, and for all those who had been broken before him, and all that had been broken inside himself, he stood up now. And his eyes were deathly dark, but victorious in defeat. And all those who saw were left to know it could be done.

The dark lord stared at him, and the fury in his eyes cooled, even though they still seemed static with menace. "Measure your words, Severus," he replied, calmer now, "or you may bring that privilege to face the poet's prediction yourself sooner than later."

At that, the Voldemort strode out of the chamber, followed by the stunned lookers-on who gazed furtively at Snape, and then away lest they incur their master's wrath, and when he thought the last one had left, his resolve finally faltered. He managed to stagger over to the far wall and fell against it, clutching himself in agony.

Then he felt her, that woman whose touch was like venom, hovering beside as she whispered in his ear, "We'll be in hell together, Severus." She seemed quite pleased at the prospect, and it chilled him to the bone.

He laughed, brokenly. "Good…good…just get us the hell out of here…" He pressed his fist against his mouth. "Have we not...made our mark in blood deeply enough in this world? Let us…be out of it…" He squeezed his eyes shut, and saw all the blood he had ever seen shed, swelling up in his memories, and every pair of deadened eyes gazing back at him…oh…so many of them from children…already dead, or doomed to die…

He felt the cold hand of Bellatrix clasping over his. "Until tomorrow, love." And she smiled at him with a look of a lost soul, lost to all reality, ignorant to the fear of hell, for hell already had burnt out her senses inside. No, she had already given herself over to the ice and the fire, and the kiss she planted on his cheek was like the kiss of winter, the kiss of death.

And as the pain subsided, he closed his eyes again, and saw the snake's head flash through his mind. He knew what was coming; he knew what it would mean. For he was not ignorant, and he still felt the pain of the flames and the sting of the ice and he could still taste blood…

No. He would feel every second of his Hell, for Hell had yet to suck out his humanity. And that frightened him worst of all.


	15. Chapter 14: Dark Night

_**Greetings, all, and thank you again for support and comments, especially to those guest commenters I am unable to thank individually via PM! One of you mentioned "Car Radio" from TwentyOnePilots, which, believe it or not, I had never known about up to this point! I am quite thankful to have it pointed out to me, as the lyrics were quite profound. My reference to silence as a form of violence in the soul in the last chapter actually came from a book I have been reading for Lent called "Meeting the Incarnate God: From the Human Depths to the Mystery of Fidelity" by Joseph J. Allen & Phillp Saliba. For a profoundly poetic overview of the mystical traditions found in Eastern Orthodox Christianity, I couldn't recommend it more highly. Also, in reference to my last message that some of you may find the proceedings from here on out emotional...that certainly doesn't ALL of you will find them to be so! But I just wanted to make sure that, for those who ARE sensitive, there was a warning before plunging into the dark stuff as the end draws near. Anyway, thank you again for your kindness and presence in my literary life! ~ Love, the Authoress**_

Chapter 14: Dark Night

A hat. A singing hat, haunting him. Over and over again the same song, and then the jeers and the taunts and the fatality of it all. A nursery rhyme as cruel as a snake's bite, poisoning his dreams.

" _Oh you may not think I'm pretty, but don't judge on what you see...I'll eat myself if you can find a smarter hat than me..."_

 _No, no! You're not half as clever as you think! Your judgments are as ashes and dust!_

 _"There's nothing hidden in your head the Sorting Hat can't see...So try me on and I will tell you where you ought to be..."_

 _You can't know that! You can't see through to the heart! A hat cannot know love or hatred! What right have you to damn me, what?!_

 _"You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart...their daring, nerve, and chivalry set Gryffindors apart..."_

 _Brave? Chivalrous?! Is that what cruelty is? Is that what represents the light?_

 _"Or perhaps in Slytherin you'll make your real friends...those cunning folks use any means_  
 _to achieve their ends..."_

 _No, no...I...lost...my friend...I don't have friends...I...I don't want friends..._

 _"Yes you do," her voice, trapped in memory, whispered in the dark, and he felt her arms around him again._

 _No! Get back! I'm unclean! See the grime of hate and blood of ambition, and the black letter they marked on my arm, and the scarlet letter they stitched through my soul...oh, it hurts so much, Lily..._

 _"So put me on! Don't be afraid! And don't get in a flap! You're in safe hands (though I have none), for I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

 _Safe hands?! You killed...killed me...for a child's weakness, you killed me! Why? In what way have I offended you?! Answer me!_

"Snape?"

Harry Potter's voice snapped him out of his dream. He was extremely disoriented as to time, but he assumed a full day must have passed since last the boy came to visit him. "What…what do you want?" he sputtered, just realizing how out of sorts his nerves were, and feeling his whole body trembling.

"You're…shaking." Harry's words were blunt, cut though with foreboding.

"Venom," he whispered, stifling a twitch. "Gotten farther along…nervous system…"

"Does…does it hurt a lot?"

"Are…are you trying…to take a bloody survey for The Daily Prophet?"

"I'm just…I just want to know what I should do…" The young man sounded disconcerted. "I…don't want you to be in pain."

"That's not what you said…at the beginning," Snape reminded him.

Harry felt a chill run through him, remembering his own furious words to Snape, just following the last battle, after discovering the man's involvement in his parents' death: _"I hope you die, I hope you die slowly, and in pain!"_

"You should know well enough how anger makes a person say awful things they never really meant," Harry stated lowly. "Now…what would you have me do for you?"

"Just…do what you do…" Snape shrugged, making as if the boy should have known better than to ask such a fool question.

"So just…read to you, or what?"

"I really…don't care, just…whatever, I…" His body tensed, strangely, and then shuddered again. Snape accidentally let a hiss slip through his clenched teeth.

"Well…here's a rather intriguing volume," Harry rattled. "I was avoiding it…says it's a manual on dissecting owls for divining…"

Snape heard him flip open the book and then mutter, "Wait…this…this isn't what the cover says it is…"

Harry squinted at the print and silently scanned the title, _The Collected Works of St. John of the_ _Cross._ There was an engraving of a crucifix beneath the words. "This is written by...a saint?"

Snape grumbled under his breath at having his secret uncovered. "My mother…she was…of Irish stock. One of her people, he…was…was some bloody hedge priest…" He used the derogatory term his father had always used, just to cast shadows on this hidden part of himself. "It…came down from them…"

"Your mum…was Catholic?"

A bitter laugh rose in Snape's throat. "I'll shock you, boy…I'll tell you…this death-eater was…named with Holy Water…and a priest's blessing…"

"Baptized Catholic?"

He confirmed it with a nod. "Isn't it…sick?"

"Why would it be sick?"

Snape pressed his hand against his temple, which was throbbing something horrible. "I'm…the Excommunicant…can you not see that? I am…the severing of bone…and marrow…cut off from…communion…"

"Did you ever actually practice, or were you just baptized, and that was it?"

"No…no… _practicing_ ," he spat. "But…she told me…once…it was indelible, the mark…it could never be erased." He smirked cynically. "I wonder which is the stronger…the mark of water, or the brand?" A slight chuckle, a slight cough. Then silence. Then solemnity. Then he spoke again. "She said once…that a Mass was more powerful than all the magic in the world. That it was…something that burned you to death…inside…and that death…would always make you come back to it, again and again and again…"

"Death?" Harry blurted. "I don't understand…"

Snape was not sure he understood, either. But he tried to explain anyway. "The death…of God. That's what it is. Uniting the whole world to it, over and over again…and yet…only _once_. It is…communion with…that death…the ultimate Death…"

"So you never went yourself?"

He closed his eyes tight. "He would have killed my mother…if she ever…took me. And I didn't…care, I…I couldn't…" He twitched. "Couldn't see how anything…supposed to be so very powerful…God or Man or whatever that…twisted, suffocating thing on the tree was…would have…let himself be broken unto death..." Again he shivered. "Such a being I could never worship…I thought it…beneath my…intelligence. For when true power is yours, you would…put a stopper in death…you would fight against it, not…let it…swallow you up…"

His thoughts flashed to Voldemort, who spent his life fighting death, even unto his last horcrux, when the jig was finally up, and his wretched life stripped from his melted form. His thoughts rushed through all the horrors he had witnessed, and sometimes participated in, because he had been caught up the promises of an everlasting regime ruled by an undying darkness that would protect him and empower him…

"So…I worshipped…the rebellion," he whispered. "For I would not…serve weakness…I would not serve…a dead man…" His mind shifted, latching onto another memory. "She told me…about the Easter Vigils…about the candles lighting up the place, and the Latin that was sung…not like spells…deeper than the spells. She said…there was…stained glass, of the Virgin in her blue, and the Child…holding a gold orb…and…it got smashed by rocks…mobs against the Papists…" Again, his head started hurting, and he pressed his fingers between his eyes. "They would take…take _Corpus Christi_. I never did…I…never communicated, never confessed…she had not done so in years…but she still wanted…a requiem Mass…a Mass…for the dead…she said…it gave…troubled souls their rest…"

"Did she ever get one?"

"No…no one would have one for her." He shook his head jerkily. "Sometimes I think…some souls are just…too far gone to ever… _rest_." He blinked, and stated softly, "It's the same…no one would ever have a Mass for me…I'm not…clean, not…connected…no one would have a Mass…you see?" His breathing became heavier. "If anything good…comes to me…it goes bad, or dies. Nothing good…can touch me…nothing can help…"

"But you did keep this book?"

"That's…exceedingly obvious…isn't it?" he huffed. "I…it…was…worth something to me. Is that…such a crime?" His voice had taken on an edge of agitation, but the question seemed aimed at himself.

"No, of course not," Harry responded in a measured voice. "Would you…mind if I read it?"

He sighed shakily, and gestured awkwardly with his hand. Whether it was a signal of consent or random annoyance was in question, but Harry looked down at the words standing out on the worn page anyway, and let the words roll off his tongue like velvet:

"Upon a dark night, the flame of love was burning in my breast, and by a lantern bright I fled my house while all in quiet rest." He heard something hitch in Snape's throat, as the dungeon bat's blind eyes suddenly grew moist. "Shrouded by the night and by the secret stair I quickly fled. The veil concealed my eyes, while all within lay quiet as the dead…"

As if prompted by some memory that ran to the very core of his consciousness, Snape rasped, "Oh night, thou was my guide…oh, night…more loving…than the rising sun…"

He was forcing the stanza of the poem out, and it was causing him pain, but he seemed to need…to get it out…to grasp at some comfort he had secretly drawn many times from those words, when he felt insanity threatening to strangle him and his nerve snapping like a twig. And perhaps to express some sudden realization…at the heart of his pain…and Lily's words…

 _"Sometimes you can't cheat death, if you want to save others. You have to embrace it for them…"_

Was that the answer to the riddle of the man on the cross, said to be brought down in flesh and blood at every Mass, and the poet who styled himself after it? Was it that strength was found in the heart of weakness, and life in the soul of death? Was it the one thing he would never have, but found himself begging for through his breaking voice? Was that the answer… _now_?

"Oh, night…that joined…the lover to the…beloved one…transforming each of them…into…the other…"

Then there was a choking, a gurgling, and dark blood came gushing out of his mouth.

 _Baptism…of water, desire, and blood…no taste of consecrated wheat or wine had ever touched his tongue, but the salivating of desire…and the stream of blood…_

Harry closed his eyes to the horror of it for a moment, then rose and went to him. Snape was still shaking, his nerves all undone, and he twitched when Harry laid his hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay," Harry tried to calm him. "It'll be okay…"

He waited for a sharp retort, but the blood in Snape's mouth prevented it. The boy grabbed the towel next to the cot and sopped up the purple liquid running down his face. Harry knew…he knew the man was…scared. The final countdown had started, and the sand had almost run out.

Snape winced at the rough sensation of the towel against his face. "You're supposed to…say something… _smart_ …" he slurred through bloody saliva.

Harry blinked. Did Snape relish the idea of their tit-for-tat, as some sense of normalcy in this ghastly moment?

"Well, just goes to show what making a fuss over poetry can do to a person," Harry tried lamely. He knew it was pathetic, but he heard a slight chuckle deep in the man's throat.

Then Snape muttered softly, "You're supposed to…make it _hurt_." His blind eyes seemed watery, and his tone contained no sarcasm, just dejection, resignation to always facing some form or other of torment all his life. "I'm bleeding…you're supposed to make it…hurt worse…when…I'm bleeding…"

 _Yes, it always egged them on, seeing his blood. His father. The grade school bullies. The Marauders. The Dark Lord and his minions. When they saw him injured, weakened, they came in like sharks for the taste of blood. They took pleasure in his pain, twisting up his emotions when his body was broken. Why should this Marauder's son be any different in the end?_

"I…don't want to hurt you," Harry murmured, and there was sincerity in his voice.

"You _should_ …" the man panted. "I…I took your mother away from you…I… _murdered_ her…with my words…and I cursed your father…to burn in hell…for his touch upon her, that caused _you_ …" He bit down hard on his lip, and it hurt… _it hurt_. "You…you should…want to…hurt me… _hurt me now_ …"

Again he fell into a coughing fit, his mind spinning in delirious circles, and again Harry steadied him with his hand as he struggled to regain breath. He could do nothing else. Whatever this man had done, had said, had thought…they were just two human beings now, tortured in their own unique ways, and brought together in this moment, in this place. So he may have cursed the act of Harry's conception, the man who brought him into being; it mattered not. All Harry could feel now was oneness with his suffering and the instinctive urge to help, if at all possible.

"What if she thought...she thought I wanted to hurt her? That I did it...on purpose? What if…if _he_ told her that…before he struck…?" Snape spit out, in anguish at the very thought, as more blood ran out of his mouth and into the towel Harry had outstretched, flakes of flesh manifested in a sea of red, a testament to the way the venom was wearing away at his lungs.

"Calm down, calm…just take it easy…" Her boy tried to soothe him as he soaked the towel in water, and let the coolness wash over the man's lips.

Snape seemed shocked at the moistness, as if it were the last thing he ever expected. " _Drink_ …?" he rasped in surprise as the precious drops of water ran onto his parched tongue and cleansed away the metallic taste.

"Yes, drink," Harry whispered, finishing cleaning off his face and then putting aside the towel. Still, he felt the need to leave his other hand lingering on Snape's shoulder as he waited for him to regain his breath. He wondered when his old teacher would come to his senses, realize the boy's hand was on his shoulder, and shrug him off like an irksome insect.

But even though his head inclined slightly towards him, Snape made no effort to thrust him off. Maybe because he was too worn out, or maybe…there was more. His eyes seemed hazed over in a way quite unfamiliar to them. It was almost as if…he was drawing comfort from the sense of touch.

"Potter," he croaked.

"Yeah? I mean…yes?"

Snape did not respond for a long, long time, and Harry began to think that what he wanted to say was simply… _stay_. But then more words trickled out.

"I…I…want…" He inhaled shakily. "I want…you to know… she…loved your father…so I want…him to be….with _her_ …not…not where I'm going…" Then he shivered, as if letting go of his Lily to his most hated enemy for all eternity was the hardest thing he had ever managed in his life. "I could not…even kill him, when I wanted to…because you were too strong…in his mind. The thought of his child…with her eyes…saved his life. And you…came from…that love. It's in…your skin…and that's the only thing…worth fighting for…worth dying for…remember that, alright?"

Harry swallowed hard, not sure what to think or say, but just stroked Snape's shoulder gently, reassuringly. He had done a braver thing this night than in all his years worth of playing the thankless games of treachery in the wizarding wars.

"Boy, tell me…what day is it today?"

"Friday," he answered.

"The Friday of Holy Week," Snape mumbled. "No Mass in all the world is said on this day…" His voice drifted with his thoughts. Then he asked Harry, "Can you…do something for me?"

"What do you need? I'll do what I can."

He closed his eyes tight. "Read…read the end. Please."

 _Snape had said please to him!_ Harry shuddered. Still, he pulled himself together, picked up the poetry book again, and read the end of the poem that had drawn the man's blood from him: "I lost myself, and laid my face upon my lover's breast…and care and grief grew dim, as in the morning's mist became the light…and there it dimmed amongst the lilies…"

 _Oh…my God…_

He understood now, all at once. This was the chink in the armor he had let no one expose, this was that crystal drop of something supremely beautiful to imagine, when everything around him was hideous. This was the place of peace he could think upon when his own resolve betrayed him, and the bitterness inside became too much to swallow. Though the whole world might have bled out as black as his cloak, the petals of some flowers would always be white as the clouds, as the snows, in pristine purity. And he still clung to them.

Even though he had all but given himself over to despair, there was some instinct drawing him to think upon the morning light rending the mist and the bloom of lilies somewhere beyond the veil. It was deeper in him than even the blinding pain. Within that was some broken seed of a tremulous hope, and a tremulous humanity, and Harry saw that connecting to these things had indeed calmed his agitation, and soon let him drift off into a more peaceful sleep.


	16. Chapter 15: Final Recognition

_**Thank you everyone for the moving comments on my last chapter, especially to the Catholic guest who I am unable to respond to directly but who recently lost family members. I will make a point to keep the repose of their souls and your family's peace in my prayers, and offer up the last bit of work on this project for those intentions. To my LDS reader; one of my best friends is Mormon, as is the studio engineer producing my latest folk/fandom/spiritual music album "Pendragon's Shield"! So I'm so pleased to have you on board, and will send you a PM shortly, along with the others I am able to respond to on here. All of your comments have meant so much to me, especially on the last chapter, as it is probably one of my favorites because I have a great appreciation for the writings of St. John of the Cross who I have read in times of trial for solace. The following chapter continues the general theme of life in the light of death, and brings Snape's experience of it to completion. That having been said, there will still be another chapter after this one, followed by an epilogue, so this is not the official "end." But at any rate, this is definitely the beginning of the finale...and I admittedly found myself tearing up over it, whilst playing "Annachie Gordon" in the background!. ~ Blessings, The Authoress**_

Chapter 15: Final Recognition

Some dreams become reality, and some realities morph into dreams. Sometimes they become too deeply entangled to ever separate, until the soul and body separate, the seas run dry, and rocks melt with the sun. So it was for Severus Snape, after the blood had run freely from his mouth. The night had since melted into day, but time seemed to have dissolved altogether.

This would be his last day. He knew it. Swallowing hurt. Breathing hurt. Dreaming hurt. Everything hurt, and he had no strength left to cling to, no analysis left. Thoughts just passed through his mind like will-o'-wisps, dancing unprocessed, like harp strings plucked, ungraspable…

But somewhere in those dreams, or dances, he heard whispers from another time, when he lay immobile in a hospital bed, bruised and broken in body and mind, drifting aimlessly between life and death…he was twitching from pain and fever, with his hand stuffed deep into his cloak…

"Sev…Sevy…" The faint memory of a broken voice, and a cool hand brushing his hot brow. A broken vision of light, as if shining through cut glass, and an angel's face. "Lily's here…don't be afraid…Lily's right here…"

And he knows the angel is crying…crying for him. And her tears trickle onto his face, and the very lightest brush of her lips caress his feverish brow. And then… the angel sang through her sobbing:

"…my love lies on him and cannot remove…it cannot remove, for all that I have done…and I never will forget…my love…"

Then other voices. First, one challenging her from Gryffindor.

"So what then? Do you love him? Is that it?"

She responds, almost in shock, "You hurt him, I know you did…you pressed him to the brink, you mocked him in his grief! How could be so cruel, after you promised me…?"

"It's the only way to handle a Slytherin…"

A sob catches in her throat, and then a scream. "He was…my friend…MY BEST FRIEND!"

Then other voices. This time from Slytherin…oh, from out of the bowels of hell…

"Get away from him, mudblood!"

"No, you get away! He's not all yours!"

"He is so …look at the mark, there, under his sleeve! Go on look at it!"

And a gasp catches in her throat, and then a scream. "Curse you…all of you…for what you've done to him!"

And then they spit insults at her, and shove her out, force her away…and the dream, too, runs away from him…

Snape awoke in the shack with a start. He was shaking now, for it had been more than a dream. It had been…a memory. Yes, lost in his coma after falling down the stairs in seventh year, and the tubes running up his nostrils to keep him breathing, even though his will to live had died, and his chapped lips instinctively murmured her name.

But now he knew. While he lay in that hospital ward…she _had_ come to him. Even back then, when he had awoken, his first question was where she had gone, for she had been there, he knew she had…but Lucius Malfoy had gone on to assure him it was nothing more than a dream…

 _Curse him…_

But still…she _had_ come. _She had come, she had come, she had come, she had come….oh…_

If an undying part of his heart always belonged to the sweet, talkative little girl with frizzy red hair and emerald eyes like the tree leaves that danced in the summer wind, then she had come to him to show that a part of her undying heart still belonged to the shy, sensitive little boy with the messy black hair and dark brown eyes like hot chocolate poured out on long winter nights. And even now, even through death, she had not ceased to love the purest part of his soul, first knit into hers in their childhood innocence, but still knit deeper than mortal breath, deeper than the farthest chasm of his hell.

She had learned to love another, it was true, and he knew she loved him faithfully. But now he realized she had never truly stopped loving him, with a love that transcended physicality. And perhaps in the end, her love for him was strongest of all. For it was easier to come to a man in his daylight, but she had come to him in his darkest night. And a flush of tears now came to him too.

 _Creak._ The door was opening. His mind flashed to young Potter, who had promised to return as soon as he could before leaving the night before. There was to be some meeting of the staff to discuss the future of the school…couldn't avoid attendance…had to leave…

 _Why had Snape felt a sinking feeling when the boy left him, and the boy's hand slipped off his shoulder? It was just…his shoulder felt…cold now…_

"For the love of Merlin, look! It's Snape!"

He froze. _Oh. They'd found him at last…_

"Death-eater! Murderer!"

Someone spat in his face, and others started taunting him without mercy.

 _Oh. His students. His own former students, who he had done everything in his power to shield from the mouth of horror, to keep alive in the belly of death, who he had fought for, and suffered for, and bled for, and faced for them what they could not face alone. Come to pay him back…_

"Someone's been hiding him up in here! Look, here are his bloody books!"

 _No, no, no…not the books…anything but the books…_

He heard pages tearing, and felt as if he were being shredded up himself. _Not the books…no, no, not the books! Tear me up, burn me up, but leave the books! Kill all that is of Hell…but not the stars!_ With a superhuman effort he forced himself up as best as he was able, and spit out, "Do not…touch them…do not dare touch them, you damned little fiends!"

He heard them laugh at this. "And what are you going to do about it, dark-marked bastard?" one of them taunted.

And then…all hell broke loose, as a bolt was fired from a wand, burning through his chest, and knocking him across the room. The impact left him crumpled in shock and pain, and he felt the blood run out of his mouth and stain his hands. And he heard them laugh at the sight of it. Then another bolt struck him through the hand, the same hand in which factory glass had been lodged so many years before, and he felt like a spike had been struck through it with a hammer. And the hammer pounded out a sordid song…

 _"If I had another penny, I would have another gill…"_

Wands stinging, body smashing, blindly…no authority, no defense, no magic left…pain, pain…and the image of his drunken father, slurring the song in his mind…a drink in one hand, and a wench on his knee…was he now managing to pity the poverty-driven, dehumanizing depravity of this man who had sired him, and beat him black and blue?

 _"I would make the piper play 'The Bonnie Lass of Byker Hill'…"_

Shrill voices, female voices, mixed in the throng…all recognizable from his old classroom, tossing things at him, hard, sharp things that cut…far crueler than the erasers and crumbled papers he had been used to girls flinging at him in the Cokeworth school…

" _Byker Hill and Walker Shore, working lads forevermore…"_

"Drink up, Snivelus…" That voice of his long-dead tormenter, that Marauder brat's voice, in his head…mouthy-southy, silver-spoon-fed brat, James Potter...and the taste of alcohol, a hazy memory, and spitting it back out…and now, as his jaw struck the floor…the taste of blood…always more blood…

" _When first I went down to the dirt, I had no coat and no pit shirt…"_

He felt himself bashed against the wall, and the wound on his neck open up, drenching through his collar…and once more he felt himself fall down those moving stairs on the day of his mother's funeral which he would not attend…and for which his father had lanced his wrists…

 _"But now I've gotten two or three, Walker Pits done well by me…"_

" _Mudblood_." His own word choking him, cutting off his windpipe…and the brand's burn being torn…open…like his heart…as he fell…and he screamed the scream of pain he had suppressed inside himself through so much for so long.

" _Byker Hill and Walker Shore …"_

 _NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!_

" _Working lads forevermore…"_

He found himself automatically digging his fingers into the floorboards in agony, trying to drag himself forward, to stretch out his body, now twisted like a pretzel from the shocks shattering him inside. And as he tried to crawl, he heard them say he was slithering…like the Slytherin snake…and then more magic piercing through him like a spear, and more pain…

 _Stop, for the love of God, stop, stop, stop…_

 _"Stop it, leave him alone!"_ Lily's voice in his head, in the days when she used to defend him from her fellow Gryffindors…and then…

"Stop it, leave him alone!"

It was another voice, a young man's voice, seeming to manifest the words ramming through his mind. It was so familiar it hurt. But the tone was raised…in defense.

" _Stop!_ You're killing him! What are you doing here?! Have you all gone mad?!"

He heard the song of wand against wands, and the flight of footsteps. And the striking song was stopped.

Snape growled like an injured dog when Harry touched him, lying in a pain-wracked position on the ground. "You," he spat, and a trickle of blood and saliva ran out of his mouth. "Before every test…you torture me…curse you…all of you!" He clenched his fist, and Harry saw that the center of his hand down to his wrist was lanced and bleeding, deep black. He assumed they had struck it with their wands, lest his good hand might still have some magic left to wield. He also surmised that his ribs might well be shattered, and his insides ruptured by the magic of hate. All the mob of students had wanted was his blood to whet their thirst…branding them with the darkness they claimed to hate so very much…

"Snape, it's not…James!" he blurted, clutching the man's collar hard. "It's Harry…"

The hate on Snape's face started to fade slowly, replaced by pure and simple hurt. "Did…did you…send them?" he queried weakly, and Harry heard in his voice an emotional vulnerability that gave him a glimpse into what he was beneath that hard, protective shell. He was afraid that the boy had been leading him on for this moment of vengeance, and that the past two weeks had been nothing more than a petty show to lure him into a false sense of security - or even, perhaps, some small semblance of affection - so that it would hurt all the worse when the ax fell.

"Of course not!" Harry shot back, wounded by the accusation. "What sort of monster do you think I am? I would never let them come here to hurt you like that!"

The prostrate man swallowed. "They'll…come back…"

"Then they'll have to get past me first. I won't let them hurt you again…I won't."

"And…my books?" He shivered. "They're…good books…just because they were mine, they…they still are…good books… _very_ good books…" He shut his eyes. "I don't want them to…get burnt up…"

"No one is going to burn your books," Harry assured. "I swear it."

Snape gazed upwards strangely, half there, and half somewhere else. "If you had…any sense…you'd get out…" His voice drifted. He wasn't saying it with his usual cutting edge, but merely stating a fact, extending an option.

"Since when have you attributed any sense to me?" Harry challenged, starting to unbutton the man's collar to make it easier for him to breathe. "I'm afraid you're just going to have to be stuck with me, like it or not."

"Stuck…together," he mumbled, with a touch of dark humor. "The story…of our lives, hmm?"

"Afraid so," the boy agreed, wiping the blood off his mouth and nose with the edge of his cloak. "I'm forced to admit you seem to have become…a part of my world."

Snape snorted. "Sounds like…the theme of some…awful muggle movie…"

"Yeah," Harry had to agree, "that girls in first year go crazy about."

To his surprise, they both simultaneously chuckled for a moment. How bizarre was this—that his sense of dry irony was still working, and giving them both a moment of comradery, even now, amidst this death-drenched horror?

"So here we are…the hero and the… _coward_ …eh?" Snape raised an eyebrow.

Harry closed his eyes. "It's painful to say this, believe me, but I think…you may be one of the bravest men I've ever known."

He knew from the look on Snape's face that his words had hit the mark, but of course his stubborn teacher still wouldn't admit to it. "Please, don't get… _sentimental_ …and name one of your…brats after me…or something…" He rolled his eyes. "A small version of you…with my name…would be…beyond the fringe…"

"Okay, fine, no first names," Harry vowed. "But no promises on middle names."

Snape jerked his hand up a little. "Sh…shake on that much then…"

He squeezed the man's injured hand tight, feeling the way it was shaking, and suddenly wanting very much for his teacher to think of him…as a man…the man who had grown from boyhood, and still lived, thanks to him. In spite of the pain it might cause, he knew…he knew that was what Snape wanted in this moment.

A look of some realization dawned on the professor's face, then sorrow, then longing. Then slowly, hesitatingly, he started to lift his hand towards the young man's face. Seeing his struggle to reach all the way, Harry guided it to his cheek, even though he knew it would be smeared with the man's poisoned blood.

Snape moved his fingers along the boy's features, imagining that face he had watched grow up, imagining what sort of man he was becoming. He may no longer have been able to see those eyes Lily had promised would always be there for him, but they had come to serve as his own…and he could _still_ touch. His hand may have had no magic left, but it was human, human at long last, and it now replaced the failed power of his eyes. _He could still feel, before all feeling ended…_

He touched the edge of Harry's glasses, crooked after his tussle with the mob, and made an effort to straighten them. "Can't have that, can we?" he whispered, a slight smirk playing on his lips. It would be his last joke, pathetic in its effort to maintain a stiff upper lip that Harry was fast losing the ability to maintain.

Then he dropped his hand to his side with a thud. His face darkened and he turned away, his mind drifting, meshing together past, present, and the abyss of the future.

"I'll never…see her again…oh…God, I can't…" He clenched his injured hand into a fist, then twitched, and tried to stuff it under his cloak, one last time. "Can't…see through…too dark…can't…"

"Snape, stop it, stop…" Harry felt a lump rise in his throat as he shook the dying man to make him stop. It was gut-wrenching to recognize the fear of eternal aloneness, that excommunication from life itself that tormented this broken being he had considered an enemy for far too long.

Snape's breath hitched, and he shuddered. He knew now, their little game was over. The end had truly come, and his body was rejecting him. He was sinking, and sinking fast. His sightless eyes were still in the direction of the boy, and for a moment, they seemed to see something beyond shapes and colors. "Harry…" he rasped, then contorted from a spasm, pain shooting through his neck.

Harry grimaced at the sound of his name in his ears, carrying with it some sense of pleading, a pleading for that missing key to unlock the door of darkness. It gave him chills, like death was scratching at the door of his own heart. He did not have all the answers; all he had was himself. So following a sudden, strong impulse, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the man's back, feeling how thin he was, how weak he was, and how his breathing fluttered like the dying evening wind. _He had to know someone was there in the dark with him, who would not cast him out but suffer it through with him, that was all…_

At first Snape stiffened, shocked by the gesture of compassion that stayed off the chill of death. Then slowly, uncertainly, Harry felt his proud, severe teacher's arm wrapping around his shoulder and pulling him tight in an embrace. "Boy…you damn fool boy…" His voice was broken, shivering. "You…could have been…my own…"

Tears misted over in Harry's glasses. And they both found themselves crying together, all alone, on what felt like the edge of the world. He was holding Harry now like he had held his dead mother so many years before, and Harry felt the love, long-concealed in the tortured caverns of a tortured sold soul, burst forth and burn through his bones. He felt so silly, like a little boy who had hurt himself, allowing himself to be comforted by Snape's hand moving to the back of his head and running along his hair. He imagined that was what a father's touch would feel like. _Did the end have to come now?_

"Remember…" Snape tried, and failed to let words lace through his sobbing. He clutched the boy tighter, and whispered in his ear, "Remember…me…"

Harry buried his face deeper in his cloak, wishing to hide himself from this moment. "Always," he assured, his voice crackling like a dying fire. And he felt Snape's bloody hand squeeze his shoulder, then rub it softly. _Touch, touch…that's all he wanted in the end…to touch, and be touched…to let his senses sing through it…_

It was a hard thing, the very hardest thing he had ever had to do, clinging tight to his old teacher and letting him do the same, feeling every moment of his excruciating suffocation. It was horrible, the way Snape's succumbing to tears had also drained him, and made his lungs rapidly give way. But still, it seemed…he was fighting it, fighting for whatever small, shallow breaths he could manage to take, fighting for the breath of life that Harry knew would come no more. He was dying…yet he did not want to die. He was only human, after all.

"Let go, Snape, let it go," Harry pleaded. "You're torturing yourself…don't fight it, let go…"

Snape looked confused, and awkwardly unhooked his arm from Harry, seeming to think that is what he was being told to do by the injunction to "let go." Then he looked…hurt, abashed, even in the midst of his agony, as if he had finally opened up, and now was too far gone to protect himself in his final moments from the sting of what might be yet another rejection. Stripped of all his cynicism, there was nothing left but need. _Had he returned to being that little boy he once was, sensitive and shy, with innocent eyes and a bruised body, unable to speak his feelings, afraid to use a handkerchief, afraid to touch, lest it cause pain, lest he be left behind, shunted aside…like a bad influence…like a contagious disease?_

"That's…not what I meant, you fool!" Harry blurted, shaken to the core that Snape would think him capable of such cruelty. He regretted his outburst almost as soon as it was uttered, seeing that Snape was beyond the point of any verbal response. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

It didn't matter now; the man started to choke on another surge of blood bubbling over his lips. He felt about on the floor with a trembling hand for something, anything to clutch, to pull himself up, to spit it out…and Harry, trained as he had been in Legilimency in the past, felt the confused state of Snape's mind permeate his own. It was not an intentional reading, but the dying man's feelings overwhelmed him just the same. It was a thrust of panic, thinking the boy had gone away and that he had been left to finish the worst of it alone, to drown himself in his own blood…

Harry took him by the shoulders and helped him turn enough to let the dark river welling up in his mouth gush down in a puddle, staining the floor boards. Again, Snape struggled for his breath, and again the boy was there to steady him with his touch. "I'm here," Harry assured. "I'm here…I'm not leaving you…damn it, don't you know that by now?"

He found himself running the back of his hand along the side of the man's face, just above the wound in his neck, and Snape's eyes flickered, blindly yearning for proof of his presence.

"Look this way…just follow my voice…I won't stop talking to you, alright?" Then he added in a whisper. "Just…trust me."

Then he felt it, that very last wall around Snape's mind crumbling into nothing, the very last protection he had been instinctively holding onto dissipating. The Half Blood Prince of innumerable defenses had lost them all. Harry could sense that the man's very essence was now open, and if the younger wizard had wanted, he knew he could easily tear through that unprotected mind like a knife through butter, even as the gurgling gasps were tearing apart the struggling man's lungs.

But Snape was trusting now…trusting, like a child trusts, hoping against all hope in something he could not prove. It was his last chance to know what it felt like to be purely himself, a whole soul beyond the shattered shards of sin and suffering, purely open to any goodness that might be knowable, susceptible to whatever might come…

Harry swallowed hard, realizing that Snape had put himself completely at his mercy in the hour of death, desperately needing him to walk him through it, and help get him through it. _Was it really up to him to teach his teacher how to die?_ "Here…" He grabbed his hand and placed it against his arm, not at all dissuaded by the way his sleeve slipped down, making his cursed death-eater's dark mark visible. "Squeeze it…squeeze hard…but don't…try to breathe…don't force yourself to breathe."

Harry felt a last exertion of strength in that hand gripping his arm as Snape shakily exhaled. It hurt…it hurt to the bone.

"That's it…just…let it go…" Harry choked, unable to control the emotional heaving of his own breath. "It's almost over…I promise, it is…" He couldn't bear to see this sort of pain keep going on and on and on…he would rather take it into his own self…

Snape had indeed stopped trying to inhale, and while Harry sensed he had resigned himself at last, he also sensed a paralyzing fear, as deep and dark as his blood. A last tear ran down the man's face, and Harry felt the sudden urge to plead for mercy.

 _Oh, mother, please, take him…for the love of his love for you, take him…and give me the words…to set him free…to tell him…where he belongs…_

"Snape…Severus Snape," Harry whispered through gritted teeth. "There's no cause…to be afraid of what's coming. You're not sold…and you're not… _lost_. You're not. I'm Lily's son, and I'm telling you, you're not. All that's done's forgiven." He ran his other hand along Snape's arm – yes, even along his exposed dark mark - so he would feel him there to the end. "Snape," he rasped. "Can you hear what I'm saying to you?"

He saw the man swallow with difficulty, and one last time, he squeezed Harry's arm. Then he closed his eyes to the world that had brought him so much pain and his heartbeat softened, then stilled. _Oh, the perversity of it…that he should sleep with his eyes open, and die with them closed…oh, the paradox of Severus Snape…_

Harry bit back a sob as he slowly pried his teacher's bloody hand off his arm, clasped like a vise-grip in death, and slowly pulled down the sleeve, shrouding the mark not so much to hide it as to lay it to rest. Then, one more time, he felt the need to embrace that shell of a man he had cared for of his own accord, out of a movement of conscience that had led to love, and he pressed his face against his chest, sensing the quiet intensity of his sleeping heart.

 _Had it not been said, once, that the soul is not so much within the body, as the body is within the soul? And if so, one should not leave the body to become lonely in the tender moments of separation? Oh…was that what Snape had been trying to tell him about his mother have been then there when he cradled her body, so many years before?_

He let himself rest there for a moment, too tired to make sense of gaping emptiness he felt, too guilty about being unable to do more, and worried about leaving him after his dependence had just been so fathomless. But he knew that he had to leave, that there was nothing left there for him to fulfill there, upon the consummation of this finale goodbye. So when his latest tears had been absorbed by the dead man's cloak, he struggled to his feet and stepped back from the body, feeling lightheaded and frozen numb.

But when he turned around, all his feeling came rushing back with the heat of his blood. At the door there stood Professor McGonagall and a crowd of both teachers and students, including the dead man's murderous tormentors, staring at him in shock, mostly with mouths agape. Something inside Harry finally snapped.

"What, have you all come to see the show?!" he screamed, scanning the stunned faces as if in a haze. "Well, it's all over! Break it up!"

With that, he charged for the door, pushed past the crowd, and staggered off into the night.


	17. Chapter 16: Doe of Dreams

_**I'm so touched by the comments I received on the previous chapter. It was actually the first chapter that I wrote in this story, so it's gone through various transitions as the story progressed. But the first idea that gave birth to the saga had to do with Snape straightening Harry's glasses as he was dying...and the rest came forth from that. Anyway, in case you didn't pick up by now, I am in favor of Harry/Hermione as opposed to Ron/Hermione, so this chapter heads in that direction. I hope you all enjoy! ~ Blessings, the Authoress**_

Chapter 16: Doe of Dreams

Harry did not know how long he walked that night. His mind was in too much of a fog. Before he knew it he was running, running through the forest, caring not that the branches scratched him and roots and vines almost tripped him up. He had to get away from all that lay at his back. He ran and ran and ran, until he reached the edge of the lake where he had collected the moss Snape had been able to identify by touch alone.

When he felt he could not run anymore, he fell down on that moss and sobbed his heart out. It was not for Snape only, but for everyone, everything he had witnessed and taken part in his whole life long, all the pain and neglect and cruelty and torture and death. He felt drained of all his strength, and discovered that perhaps the thing that had kept him sane at war's end was the playing of a game with someone else. And now the game was over, and the someone else was gone. The someone else who had been his enemy, and his friend, and who had always been there to protect him – and Harry supposed that somewhere, deep inside himself, he had always known that was the case – was gone.

And now the boy felt empty, empty and scraped out inside, shrouded by the night, and so very, very alone. Everything seemed to have run out apace for him, pushed along by a destiny not his own, by mortals assuming god-like powers to dictate the fate of others, of men gone mad for magic, and others gone mad in the fight against their claims. There were those whose evil was like fire, burning inescapably and insanely, and those who evil was like ice, assuring themselves that the ends would justify their means.

It was the true contagion, the true disease, and they dragged the whole world down with them. It was the language of the serpent, the road that runs pell-mell through the dark wood, until all the paths are overgrown and the straight way is lost. And it was magical, so very magical. And it burned as cold as snow. And he wondered…he wondered if it had burnt up all their humanity as well…

He was haunted by the thought of what might have happened if he had not been there. Would the crowd have just stood gaping while he writhed on the ground, blind and lone with nothing to cling to as his lungs failed him? Would they just have let him wear himself out with struggling for breath until the terror of death and disorientation swallowed him up? Would he never have known that someone in the world cared enough to hold him like a human being instead of shrink back from him as if he were a reptile, without warm blood or the need for human touch?

And this brought a new disturbing thought to his mind, recalling how sensitive to touch Snape had grown in his last days. The thought of him being so cruelly brutalized before the end ruptured the boy's heart. For having felt so much antagonism toward the man for so very long, he had no idea how deeply he had come to care for him…until now. So Harry Potter, the savior of the Wizarding World, cried until he shook, and clutched himself, and rocked himself to sleep.

When he awoke, his eyes, still stinging raw from the tears he had shed so profusely, fell upon the lakeshore. There he beheld an astonishing sight. It was more light than sight, or beyond the mortal sense of seeing. It was light, bled out silver, yet living, like sorrow feels alive when it makes the blood throb within you. It felt like a dream, yet beyond the confines of any dream Harry had ever known. It felt magical, yet beyond the realm of all magic Harry had ever breached. It was a doe, silver-white in the moonlight. And her eyes, as piercing as the stars against the vast ebony expanse, glittered green.

Harry sat up fully and adjusted his glasses. She was still there, and she was looking at him. Could an animal convey such a tenderness in its eyes? He knew, suddenly, that he recognized those eyes…he recognized them, and with them the softness of a mother's breast, as she held him in her arms, and the softness of a mother's voice as she sang to him in the twilight.

 _"There were three raven sat on a tree, and they were as black as they might be, and one of them said to his mate 'what shall we for our breakfast take?'"_

And he heard it, and felt it, and saw it. And she was _here_.

He reached his hand out on instinct, down on one knee. Her eyes continued to penetrate his own and his lips trembled. "Mmm…mmm…mother…"

The doe seemed to study his hand, and then approached it until the tips of Harry's fingers touched her velvety nose. It was real, so very real, and yet…realer than real. It felt like no other touch he had experienced before, like touching the sky.

"You…you came for him, didn't you?" he queried, letting his hand run down the sleekness of her neck. Her eyes beamed in the darkness…and he knew the answer already.

 _"Down in yonder deep green field, there lies a knight slain 'neath his shield…now, here there comes a fallow doe, as great with young as she might go…"_

"He loves you lots, mum," he said. "Take good care of him, even if he's cranky, alright?" He felt his eyes starting to well up again, and he felt the deer come closer, and he rested his face against her neck. "Show him…what the open sky looks like…show him where the water runs clear…"

 _"She lifted up his bloody head, and kissed his wounds that were so red; she got him up upon her back and carried him to the earthen lake…"_

He felt her face move against his, and then away from him, and his whole heart felt like it was melting. He wanted to stay with her forever. His whole soul felt on fire with the love she was leaving him, stronger then the coursing lightening of Voldemort's rod she had taken for him. She was his mother, in whom he had been formed, and nurtured, and then brought forth into the world; what closer claim could he have?

"Mother, don't…don't leave me here," he blurted. "I…I don't want to go on alone anymore…I just…can't bear it…" He pressed his arm to his face as the tears ran down. "Can't I come…come with you? Please…please don't leave me all alone…"

A final time, he met those eyes. And if he could read them, he might say he saw the strain of sorrow. For can a mother ever forget her child, nor cease to be left with the mark of loss that crevices the inner workings of the soul? Is not a mother's love stronger than death, strong enough a bond to bind sleeping and waking, and carry all the world?

Yet he knew inside himself as he crossed the water that he could not follow. Her eyes told him so. Someday, but not now. He had to stay until his time had spent itself. He had to _live_. So many had died for him to have a life. He could not throw that away, or else all their sacrifices would not be measured worthy. He had to live for them, see the wild colors and hear the wild music of the running water of life, gurgling over in freshness of taste and the scent of untamed growth and the touch of unfettered love.

No, she had come for those who had served their sentence, come to melt the chains into liquid gold that runs, and burst the shackles with song, old songs, beautiful songs…

 _"She buried him before the prime; she was dead herself by evensong time…God send every gentleman fine hawks, such hounds, and such a loved one…"_

"Love you, mum," he whispered as she crossed the water lightly, and surrounding her the pure light, pure energy, gleaming like ice as it melts, vanished. And she vanished too. Harry found his voice fade from him, and he fell down on both his knees on the lakeshore. He was shaken to the core of him, and his breath seemed to crystallize in the cool spring air, to form the early morning dew upon the wild emerald grass.

Then he turned his eyes to the right, to the edge of the water where the last stars were fast evaporating in the flawless reflection. There was a rock, slit down the center, and from the heart of it there blossomed a water lily, as pale as the light of the fading moon. It grew there like the fairest beacon of deliverance, and the portal of the dawn.

And Harry understood now what the all the old songs meant, about the missing keys to unlock the dark, all the signs and symbols that men sought after. In the end, they all came down to the object of their love. For if that love lived, then hell itself would lose its hold upon the soul.

His mind flooded with old words printed on old pages in the heart of Dante's Inferno, and spoke them quietly to the chill spring wind:

"So that the Universe felt love, by which, as some believe, the world has many times been turned to chaos. And at that moment this ancient rock, here and elsewhere, fell broken into pieces."

 _Yes, broken! And broken the shields, and broken the gates of hell!_

He turned again to the water, speckled with the stars that no spiders could stain, that no web could contain, and his own reflection met him, and the piercing emeralds of his eyes. And he scooped up the water with his hands, and splashed it in his face. And with it, the stars splashed on him, and the sky, and he felt the grime of the past wash away.

And waiting for the ripples to ease, and his image to coalesce once more upon the skin of the water, there was no boy, but a man gazing back at him. It was his inner self brought to completion, his sufferings brought to fruition, and for the first time in forever, he felt peace. And he knew that he could go on.

Just then, he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. "Harry! Harry, are you…alright?"

It was Hermione Granger, her hair wild and her eyes full of concern as she stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight. He struggled to his feet, and they gazed at each other for several moments, and it seemed that the visual exchange spoke volumes.

She swallowed. "Oh, Harry…I'm so sorry."

"I…I know it must have looked…strange, what you saw, what everyone saw…but…he just needed someone to…to hold him, that was…all…" Harry brushed his sleeve across his face. "He wasn't Voldemort's, Hermione…he worked for Dumbledore all these years…the curse he laid on him was per his own request. But…but his heart belonged…to my mother. That's why he did what he hated…he…he couldn't…forget her…"

It was obvious Hermione could not grasp all of the details at once, but she nodded nevertheless. "For a long time, I suspected…there was more to him than met the eye," she confessed. "That he might be involved in undercover work, with some…hidden sorrow that kept him at the job. I saw it break through his bitterness sometimes, and…I pitied him."

"You seem to have been more observant than I," he muttered. "But I think…I think I learned to read between the lines a little, these past couple of weeks. We…we sort of…connected. I don't know how to describe it. We were both pretty lost, and helped…helped find each other. That's why I couldn't tell anyone about him still being alive. I…I needed to try…try to see clear to him…or else I would carry a burden of darkness for the rest of my days."

"I knew there had to be an explanation for your daily disappearances," she stated quietly. "But I also knew…you were keeping it to yourself with good reason. And now I know that you both needed to have this time…to sort things out between you."

"I don't know how much sorting out we did in any official sense," he mumbled. "Just…started getting on accidentally, I guess. I mean, it's not like he ever stopped his cutthroat cracks, but…I guess I realized that…he did come to care about us after all. Just had a hell of a time letting on, you know?"

"I think…there are lots of people who have a hard time telling others how much they care," she acknowledged. "But he did in the end, Harry. He did to you. He needed you so much in the end, and you were there for him. I think…that was his way of saying thank you."

Harry swallowed hard and nodded. "I…I came to care about him, too. He taught me how to…grow up. And without the extra time we had, I think…I think I might have stayed…lost forever, maybe."

"I believe it was the same for him," Hermione surmised, "Cynicism can only survive on the idea that all goodness in the world has died. He needed to know that all he had done…did not come up empty after all. That he taught something worth teaching, and passed on some worthwhile part of himself to the next generation."

"He did…teach me something very important," Harry agreed, turning to her. "He taught me that…you should never outgrow love for another soul. Perhaps…it is an impossibility. If you love, really and truly, and it's not just some passing fancy, it should be planted in you, putting down roots in you, and growing in you and with you. It's not like an old toy you stop playing with because you're too old for it, or clothing you outgrow. It's…always in the present, outside of time. At the same time it waits for you, like the stars at night."

She smiled. "That's very poetic. I'm not used to you talking that way."

"I'm afraid he sort of pounded the poetry into me," Harry remarked with a rather silly grin. Then his face grew serious, and his eyes vulnerable. "Would you…stay with me out here for a while, Hermione? Please? I…I don't feel ready to be alone, and I trust you…"

"Of course," she assured. "Do you really need to even ask?"

"Well, I…I don't want to make…Ron jealous," he muttered with a short laugh.

"Harry, Ron and I haven't been romantically involved for weeks upon weeks now, just like you and Ginny haven't," she clarified.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Are…you sure?"

"Yes, quite sure," she affirmed. "I still love Ron; we're best friends, and always will be. But we both found out it's not…that way. I suppose we always sort of knew it, but being in the midst of a war can do things like that to people."

"Oh," Harry exhaled. "Then…then it would be okay for you…to stay?"

She sucked on her lower lip and nodded.

"I'm just….not ready to face everyone and explain everything. In the morning, I'll have to manage, but…not tonight."

"I understand," she whispered. "Truly I do. You just rest a little, and I'll be here…alright?"

They soon found themselves lying down next to each other on the moss, hands joined, squeezing their fingers around the other's a little tighter when the pain pierced like a shard of silver starlight on the water. It seemed as if hours, days, centuries passed in this way, between sleeping and waking and a soothing, timeless presence.

Then, somewhere, an owl screeched, and Harry jolted at the ominous flap of its wings. Hermione drew closer to him now, and her hand was on his shoulder, the one which Snape had put back into socket. She massaged it till it relaxed, then laid her head there. Her bushy chestnut hair fell in his face, and it caused him to giggle just a little, in spite of himself.

"What?" she demanded through a sneaking smile.

"Your hair…it tickles."

"It does, does it?" It was all the inspiration she needed to commence tickling him, which erupted into a few moments worth of good-natured wrestling. They were both laughing – yes, laughing together – and then suddenly they were both crying, crying together, held tight in other's arms.

"Oh, Hermione…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, realizing the depth of her own grief at the loss of her own parents, even as she had been trying to comfort him.

"I'm afraid…something's gone out of me," she choked. "I used to be so safe in everything I could do…everything I could learn, and achieve…but now, it feels all nasty, like swallowing with a sore throat…and I think I shall never want to learn anything again. I shall never want to learn anything again…I shall never feel safe with myself again…"

"But you are safe, you're safe now," he assured, pulling her tighter against him. "And your mind is safe and strong and you'll go on to do amazing things with it, because that's who you are. You're… _strong_ , Hermione…far stronger than I myself can claim to be…"

"I…I don't know if I'm as strong as I once thought..."

"Yes, you are," he assured, and touched her face. "Strong as the wisest trees." He looked at the rowan and the oak grove nearby. "Strong as magic of the candle that welcomes the dawn."

Hermione reached back across and touched his face as well. "And you're beautiful, Harry Potter, beautiful and brave."

He chuckled slightly. "I…I doubt that…"

"I _mean_ that. I've always known it, deep inside, since the first year we met as children. But to do what I saw you do this night…it took all that was best in you, and brought all that out to fruition. Killing the dark lord was a paltry show by comparison. Your courage has grown with the years…and so has your capacity to love. And that's what makes you beautiful."

Seeing Snape's blood still smudging his face and glasses made her eyes grow sorrowful. Then she dug into the pocket of her jacket and brought out a handkerchief to wipe them clean. He smiled a sad, worn out smile. "Thanks…I…I needed that, 'Mione. You're…my…"

He could never finish the sentence. He wondered if he even would have been able to find the right words. All he knew was that her intelligent brown eyes, flecked with the gentlest gold, like costly rings, drew him in, and he felt her move towards him, and the light of her eyes set fire to his. And their lips were on fire, and they burned upon contact, and then felt soothed, like cooling, soothing liquid running over the cracked earth.

"Oh…oh…" she moaned. "When I thought you were dead…I thought…I would die…oh, don't you dare go now…no, no, no…"

They found themselves once again lying alongside each other on the moss, and they were kissing each other, soft and strong, and the breathing of love made its way back and forth, from out to the other. He was running his hand through her gracefully untamed hair, and he felt her move her cheek along his, and he heard her breath like the brook of life in his ear. Both their faces grew warm, and the contact had knocked crooked his glasses again. But he loved every blessedly imperfect moment of the contact.

He realized in the midst of it all, how desperately he wanted to let himself go, if she wanted to let herself go as well. He wanted to strip himself totally after so much sorrow, to actualize the sensation of flesh upon flesh, of something that felt electrically alive after so much death. It wouldn't be cheap, he told himself, for he realized now that he did love her, and always had, truly and strongly, even if the realization only fully came now.

He wanted to feel himself drawn so tightly within that love that the last vestiges of the shield around his heart would break into pieces, and inside her, he would become joined to her in such a way that made them both safe, and together they could experience that pinnacle of intensity that gave way to the drowsy descent of peace. He wanted it, wanted it badly, and she seemed to want the same, for she too had experienced more suffering that she was able to bear alone any longer, and she wanted to feel something good, something stronger than the pain, a rush of warmth from another body into her own. It was natural enough, was it not?

But Harry felt a nudge of something interior, most likely arising from one of Snape's monotone lectures that told him something wasn't right, and if he really loved her, he had to make it right before going any further.

So somewhere in the midst of kissing, he sat her up with him, and started to pull away. Hermione, obviously emotionally compromised, started to cry, and reached back out for him. She was too scared to let him go, lest she somehow lose him forever. She was startled by him pushing her away.

He felt his heart hurtle and crash, and he took both her hands in his and kissed them. "Hermione, listen…I can't do this now because…because I want…want to marry you, if you'll have me."

She blinked. "Marry…?"

"We could start a life away from here, 'Mione. My father's inheritance is mine as soon as I'm 18, and that's only in a couple of months. That would get us off the ground at least. We could continue our schooling in the muggle world. Oxford, maybe. We could be whatever we wanted. We'd be free. And I'm not claiming I'd win the Husband of the Year Award, but…I'd try…really, really hard to be a good one, at least."

"Harry…we're still…so young," she reminded him, wiping the tears from her face.

"Young, yes, but also…older than most. And…without any family now. We'd be even more alone, back in the muggle world. But we've been through enough side by side to make us something like family to each other already. I think…it would just grow upon that, and…we could…make a go of it."

She tilted her head dubiously. "You…you want to spend your life with an insufferable smarty pants, always going on about the fascinating back stories unearthed in the appendixes of ancient tomes?"

Harry chuckled. "Hey, if you can imagine putting up with my impulsiveness and fits of emotion, I think it's an even deal. Besides, maybe I'll get lucky and some of your smarts will start rubbing off on me a little at a time. Failing that, our kids would at least get a 50/50 shot at brilliance."

"I also will continue to be very outspoken. I'm not the submissive wifely type, you know, so you mustn't expect it of me."

"Eh, submissive wifely types aren't my type anyway," Harry stated with a smirk. "Sounds really quite dull and wishy-washy, not like you at all! And…I've always thought of marriage as being a balance of equals, with each side supporting the other and making the building stand."

"Or two wings of a bird," she offered. "Flight is only possible if both are made of strong bones and soft feathers."

He smiled. "I'll go along with that." He gazed up at the sky and saw that the darkness was lifting incrementally, and the stars sizzling out. "Want to go to the high ground so we can see the light come back?"

"I'd love to," she affirmed.

So they went walking through the darkness of the woods, in the trusting quiet, holding hands because it felt good, it felt…safe. When they reached the edge of the cliff, they gazed out across the shadowlands towards the unseen horizon waiting to be made manifest by the rising sun.

A breeze blew up, and Hermione shivered a little. Harry promptly undid his cloak and offered it to her.

"I'm alright, really," she insisted.

He looked at her dubiously. "Oh, go on, take it. Equality is great and all, but it doesn't mean chivalry has to be totally dead, does it?"

She looked at him slyly, and then slowly accepted the offer. "My thanks, noble sir," she clucked.

"Should I make a fire?" he queried. "It's rather cold, isn't it?" He started reaching for his wand. Then he thought again, and decided that if he was going to try and live a muggle life, he might as well start now. He found two sticks nearby and proceeded to kneel down and start to rub them together.

She smiled teasingly. "Harry, you're not honestly going to…"

"Hey, I'm determined," he crowed. "Gotta start at some point, you know?"

"Yes, but couldn't we start some other time with…matches?"

He sighed. "So you're saying just…utilize the conveniences at hand?"

"I think that's reasonable," she counseled, pulling the cloak tighter around her. "Or else…we might just crystallize up here!"

"Alright, fine," Harry relented, admittedly realizing that rubbing two sticks together was going to take forever and a day to achieve the desired result. So he snapped out his wand and rapidly set the twigs ablaze.

"Too bad I didn't bring marshmallows," she remarked.

"Or chocolate," he added. "Or graham crackers. Honestly, 'Mione, you're slipping."

She laughed lightly, and started braiding some nearby grass and nettles together to make a little nest around the crackling sticks as the morning breeze kissed the flame. And she blew on it gently, giving it the strength to keep burning. Her other hand, shielding it, accidentally got singed by the sparks, and she yelped.

Harry pulled something out from under his collar, and Hermione's eyes widened. "The Wielder's Amulet," she noted. "I…I knew they presented it to you after the battle, but…I never saw it up close before…"

It was enchanting to the eye, that circle formed out of two-tone rainbow glass, with a crystalline center that contained ruby red liquid. And Harry started to unscrew something from the top of it.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "You're not supposed to…"

"Here, give me your hand," he instructed, and then dabbed some of the oily substance on her burn, making her reddened skin almost immediately return to its normal color.

"Harry, you're not supposed to waste it on frivolous things like that…"

"It's not wasting it all," he countered. "It's…for healing. And besides, I…I want this…to become yours now."

"No, that can't be," she retorted. "It was made long ago for the one in the prophecy who would bring down the reign of darkness. It was only to be worn by the one to whom the Elder Wand answered."

"But…you're the one who my heart is answering to now," he replied softly. "Which do you think really has greater power?"

She blushed as he slipped the necklace over her head and brushed back her hair away from the chain. "Blood of the dragon, tears of the Phoenix, and the rainbow glass of resurrection," she described it in a tone of reverence towards the relic.

"Yes, for strength, healing, and rebirth," Harry noted. "And perhaps, in sharing it together as one, we will be granted some small measure of peace."

She smiled gently and leaned against the rock with Harry, snuggling close against him. "I feel…almost like I could sing."

"Do then," he urged her. "Sing till all the birds come out to join you. Sing so your parents can hear you."

So she sniffled involuntarily at the mention of them, and steadied her resolve, and started to sing an old Scottish ballad:

"I wish I was where Helen lies, for night and day on me she cries, for I am weary of the skies, on fair Kirkconnel lea…"

He heard the rustle of the wind, laden with the scent of pink-skinned blossoms, and the cooing of the pink-eyed doves, loving wildly in the growling predawn hunger. He licked his lips, grown dry, and the air cooled them. He tasted moisture on the breeze.

"Oh, Helen, rare beyond compare, I'll make a garland of her hair, I'll bind my heart forevermair…until the day I dee…"

The wind touched Hermione's hair, and there was a sheen in it Harry had never noticed, two-toned, like the glass of the necklace she wore. Pale light was filtering through it, and revealing it as chestnut brown and strawberry blonde, and as the amulet shimmered red and then blue, his hand ran along the softness of the uncombed waves.

"I wish my grave was growing green, and a winding sheet drawn o'er my e'en, and I in Helen's arms was lain on fair Kirkconnel lea…"

Oh, Snape…where would he be laid to rest? Not anywhere near Hogwarts, to be sure; not over Harry's dead body. No, if he was going to leave it all behind, he would make sure that his teacher's bones rested in free ground, untouched by the wand. No more magic…only consecration over the earth that would rain over the wood of the casket…

"I wish I was where Helen lies, for night and day on me she cries, for night and day on me cries, 'Haste and come to me!'"

"Oh…that's so sad," Harry whispered, clutching her hand and gently rubbing the back of it along his cheek for comfort.

"Yes," she agreed. "But it's also…beautiful. For love is a stronger thing than death, after all. Perhaps we all need to be reminded of that."

"Yes…as often as is possible. If nothing else is every taught in the whole world, the songs will keep us mindful of that. And the darkness cannot overcome a song."

And the pink rays of the spring sun pierced the grey-eyed dawn. Bright fuchsia burst forth and spiraled into a bold orange orb that broke out from beyond the mountains. And the wind died down, and there was no violence in the silence this time, only profound knowing that the war was over. Peace had come, and with it, a strange melancholy joy, breaking forth like the sweetness of tears washing away the stain of blood. And he felt alive. And he felt awake. And he remembered that it was Easter Morning.


	18. Epilogue: Remember Me

_**Well, this is it, folks; the grand finale! I am so, so appreciate for your supportive feedback and for getting to meet you all through this project! I do hope you'll stick around and follow my other projects in the works, including more Harry Potter stuff, Game of Thrones, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Hunger Games, etc.! And if you read through this tale in its entirety, I would so appreciate it if you could send me a "blurb" of a review, like you see on the back of books, so that I can collect them together I a collage to commemorate my first completed multi-part fan-fiction saga :) In other notes: I highly recommend some of the literary authors and works I mentioned (Dante, William Butler Yeats, William Blake, John Donne, and of course, St. John of the Cross, among many others) and laced throughout the story. The poems, folk songs, and classic literature quotations I hope will inspire you to delve further into the original pieces. Also, I couldn't have gotten through without the spiritually reflective music of Loreena McKennitt - and among other things, her tear-jerker rendition of "Annachie Gordon", that came to symbolize to me the beauty and tragedy found in the relationship between Severus and Lily. Other major inspirations were "Lily's Theme" from the movie soundtracks, "Forgiven" by Within Temptation, as featured in a heart-rending Snape fan video, and "The Three Ravens", featured in Simon Schama's "History of Britain" series. I also want to extend a very special thanks for my encyclopedically astute Hogwarts literate confidante (he knows who he is!), who insisted that I take a plunge into the fandom to begin with, and has been a daily source of support and inspiration on this project. Lastly, but certainly not least, I must credit my own personal Snape...oh, yes, I had one of my own. But instead of chemistry, she taught music. Complete with black hair and a black coat she rarely removed, she scared most of us kids, and did not suffer fools (especially ones trying to be "smart" in class) lightly. But what I came to discover was that beneath her death-glares and wry wit lay a caring heart, and indeed, a sensitive soul. She instilled in me (with a firm hand!) a love of musical performing, and I will never forget how, after growing close to her in out of class interaction, she would give me turtlenecks out of her closet, and on my 16th birthday, a necklace...and a hug, in that black coat of hers. If anyone's voice came through in my depiction of Snape clearly, it probably belonged to her. And I will say, with all sincerity, that I am proud to have been her student. ~ Blessings, the Authoress**_

Epilogue: Remember Me

A man in his mid-30's, wearing glasses and an overcoat, stood in a windswept cemetery in front of a grave. It was a gray winter day, as gray as the waves crashing against the Dorset coast not far away, and the chiseled sky seemed to match the texture of the headstone before him.

He knelt and brushed away the snow dusting it. "There you go," he muttered, smiling slightly. "Can't have that, can we?"

He pulled his coat tighter as the wind whipped up along the side of the hill. "Well, it's your type of day, that's for sure. I do hope you're satisfied with me getting half frozen to death during visiting hours." He gazed out, in the direction of the ocean. "There's salt on the wind today. I love it when I can taste it. It seems to come alive, when it plays along with the currents. Sometimes it seems like they are both living things, bound together. I think you'd have liked living by the ocean; it gives a man a place to wander and to think…"

He didn't say anything for a little while, then tossed in awkwardly, "So I suppose I'll update you on the family. Hermione sends her love. She's still keeping busy with pediatric pharmacy, so maybe all those potions lessons did her some good after all, even though you were sort of a jerk to her back then. She's taken it in stride, and is pretty damn good at her job. She has a heart for helping people, especially kids."

He stuffed his chapped hands into his pockets. "You would have loved to scare straight our own kids, I imagine, especially Albus Severus. Obviously I kept my part of the bargain…it's only a middle name. But I do wonder what you'd have been like around little Lily Luna. I fancy she looks a lot like her grandmother, red hair, green eyes, and a patch of freckles just by her nose. And she's very sweet-natured. Why do I have a sneaking suspicion you would have gone just a little softer on her? And I do think she would have liked you, too. She has a way of reading between the lines. She probably would have adopted you as her personal project."

He turned his eyes to the ground. "Speaking of projects, I'm happy to report Luna Lovegood is taking good care of Ron, who is doing pretty well running his dentist office. Hermione gave him a lot of inspiration there, her parents having been in that field and all. Ginny is also quite happy with Neville, who's now a botanist. She came to think he was pretty cool, especially after he massacred your snake, and he needed the additional self-confidence after all those years of your scaring the britches off him, anyway. Plus she thinks his flowers are romantic, so all's well that ends well. They're all almost like aunts and uncles to the kids now."

Then he remembered to include his old former enemy. "Even Draco Malfoy recently settled down with a nice girl and has managed to leave behind his past record menace to the magical society. He's done well for himself; went into business management, and has a cushy office in one of those big London companies. When we all left Hogwarts and came back to the muggle world, his parents pretty much disowned him. So we sort of formed a little club among ourselves for support. But you were right about getting out, especially after what happened when the Ministry fractured and Hogwarts closed its doors after the war. Positive anarchy up there. As I told you before, we had to pretty much make a raid to get Professor McGonnagall out of there. You know how stubborn she is; she'd stay on board until the ship sunk, or be thrown into Azkaban by feuding factions."

He rolled his eyes, recalling how he and Ron had to risk her incinerating them with her wand before managing to pretty much drag her into a muggle vehicle and drive her to the safety of the south while rioters were wreaking havoc on the school grounds. "She was a bit shaken, but she's doing okay now; lives in retirement in an ornate old place with lots of books and antiques from the wizarding and muggle worlds, plus opened up something of a rescue shelter for magical animals without a home. Lots of cats and owls, as you can imagine. And I never realized she was so good at music. She's got a magic touch with the harpsichord, so she's giving the kids lessons. And for the record, she seems to have quite gotten over that wand duel incident, because she talks in as praiseworthy a tone about you now as you once did in the shack. She even said that under more advantageous circumstances, you might have made a damn good headmaster. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, Hagrid's staked out with her too as her groundskeeper and animal caretaker. He's also got his own landscaping business under way, so he's putting his giant green thumb to good use…"

He exhaled. "But anyway, enough about them. Time to talk about me. Guess what I had to teach in literature class this past week?" he rattled on with a sparkle in his eye. "Dante. Thought of you the whole time." He smirked. "How come I can barely get through a day as a teacher without imagining some deliciously sarcastic thing you'd say to me, even after all this time? Maybe I should stop using your books in session. They're haunted or something. But I don't know…maybe I get a kick out of thinking what your commentary would be. It would still be Potter this, or Potter that, oh, you like the title 'professor', do you? Empty-headed maggot, bricker-brack boy, you're doing it all wrong, you're not hard enough on your brats, you make too many jokes in class, love is less effective than fear among any student body…" He swallowed something back. "But…fear isn't what keeps bringing me out here, is it?"

He turned his eyes to the sky strewn with snow clouds, and felt icy water blurring his vision. "Damn it, Snape, don't you know you're missed down here? You miserable man, don't you know how much…?" He inhaled, regaining control of himself. "Sorry," he chuckled. "Still the emotional basket case, I'm afraid." He half laughed, half sniffled. "Well, at least you see…I still remember. You're a hard one to forget, you cantankerous codger."

His eyes softened. "I've got something to tell you. I know you'd snark me about it like crazy, but…well, you're involved, like it or not. I'm starting to…go to Mass at the parish regular-like. Starting to…take instruction, as they call it. It all started with that Mass I had for you. Didn't know half how to go about it in the beginning …just had to track down a priest to get the general scoop. Sort of blurted out that I had this friend who had been…a son of the Church. Hey, you said that type of thing never got worn away, and it seemed to work pretty well in getting what needed to be gotten. The padre was a good sport about it and helped me figure things out. So…instead of one, I wound up going to two Requiem Masses. You said your mum wanted one too, right? Well…she got it now."

He let his mind drift back to the memory of deciding to light a votive candle beneath the stained glass window of St. John of the Cross. "I felt…what you said. There was a deeper magic at work. I can't describe it, but…it made me feel connected and complete. I started to want to attend more often, and then…I started learning about it, and I wanted…to confess, to communicate. So, unless I blow something in a major way, I should be able to do so come Easter Vigil this year. And…in a strange sort of way…it's sort of your doing. So…better wish me luck."

He turned back down in the direction of the winding road from which he had come. "I'd best get going. Hermione will be getting supper together, and she hates it if I let it get cold grading papers too late or lollygagging about. We live in a nice place. It's a lovely cottage with a garden in the back, and green meadows and woods, and lots of open space to see the sky…"

Again he found his words running out apace, realizing that none of it could have been possible without the sacrifice of others. He pulled something from under his coat and laid it down in front of the grave. "Sorry it got a little crunched," he apologized, regarding the lily lying almost camouflaged in the snow. "Had to get it at one of those greenhouse places on the way up here. It's not the easiest time of year to get these, so you've got to give me an E for effort, at least."

The wind brushed the petals, and for a moment, the flower seemed to be dancing to the music of spring's rebirth stirring deep beneath the frozen ground of winter. Was it speaking to the one who had laid it there? Telling him of something that transcended the grave?

He closed his eyes. "Give mum a hug for me, okay? And if you see my dad…tell him I said hi. Tell him how annoyingly like him I am sometimes. And tell him…I won't make the same mistakes he did."

One last time he touched the stone. "See you soon, Snape. Thanks again for this life I'm living. God knows it was worth everything, after all."

And as Harry Potter walked away, the pale sun glinted through the frosty sky and shone on that headstone, carved in the shape of a Celtic cross. It read:

 ** _Severus Snape:_**

 ** _Teacher and Friend -_**

 ** _"Farewell, farewell,_**

 ** _To you who would hear,_**

 ** _You lonely travelers all."_**

Beneath that, at the base of the cross in even smaller writing, was inscribed:

 ** _Luke 23:43 – "I tell you, this day you will be with Me in Paradise."_**


	19. Poem: The Color of Love

**The Color of Love**

"Lily, tell me,

What color is it I'm seeing?

Or is it something beyond sight?

Oh, tell me, Lily…"

 _"_ _Dear Sev, you know what it is…"_

"But I want you to be the one

To tell me again…

Oh, it's beautiful, Lils…"

 _"_ _Silly, silly…like a little boy…"_

"Oh, please tell me,

Tell me forever

So this veinless heart

Keeps beating…"

 _"_ _Alright, I'll try and paint it –_

 _You know when the trees sang?"_

"Yes."

" _That's the color of their song._

 _You know when the stars were born?"_

"Yes."

 _"_ _It's the color of their birth._

 _And when the four winds spoke?"_

"Yes."

 _"_ _That is the color of their tidings._

 _It is snow upon the sun_

 _And wine upon the tongue_

 _And the sting of flowers grown in the bracken_

 _And the breath of thirsting souls."_

"It burns me, Lily…

Like the ink of books once burned me.

But I want it always to burn,

Burn on, burn on in me

Like the color of your eyes once did…

Oh, Lily, how can we see without eyes?"

 _"_ _Our truest eyes are deeper set,_

 _And they open fully when we awake from sleep."_

"Yes, sleep…

I feel that everything has paled

Next to the brilliance that is here…

Oh, is it not the color of fire,

And will it not swallow us up?"

 _"_ _Are you afraid, Severus?"_

"No, no…I want it to touch me…

To consume me, even…

Oh, what is this desire?"

 _"_ _They say that Hell is made of fire_

 _But separation knows no warmth._

 _The only fire that ever breathed_

 _With color, as you see it here,_

 _Was made of Love."_

"Then that is the true nature

Of the color that is calling me?"

 _"_ _Yes, my dear one, yes…_

 _The flames stoke the embers_

 _Of the Heart."_

"Is it like rebirth?"

 _"_ _Yes, as if all the world had died_

 _And fractured into starlight_

 _That sings a newborn song."_

"It is as if everything has stopped,

Frozen in fire…

Only to melt and run like a brook

That laughs for the first time.

Oh, Lily, I love your laugh…"

 _"_ _Oh, Sevy…back to me again?"_

"Yes. Always."

 _"_ _After all this time?"_

"Has not time perished

With the ocean foam

And burned away

Like mortal breath

Or run itself out

Like mortal blood?"

 _"_ _Oh, blood…oh, Severus…_

 _I wept for you when you died…"_

"And I for you, when you died."

 _"_ _I know. I felt it."_

"Perhaps the color is also

That of blood,

That of tears

Shed for love?"

 _"_ _And the touch of one to another…_

 _That touches the soul."_

"Your boy…he touched me like that

When my lungs were failing…

I felt like a fool,

For I had judged him sorely wrong.

But he did not hurt me…

Not like all the others.

No, no…

He held me when I cried

And forgave me when I died.

He is your son, Lily…

He has your eyes

On the surface, and deeper set."

 _"_ _He called on me to come for you…"_

"He did?"

 _"_ _Yes…_

 _But I was already there."_

"You were?"

 _"_ _Yes…_

 _Did you not always know I would be?"_

"I hoped, but…

I was dirty, Lily, and it was dark…"

 _"_ _Oh, Sev, such a little boy…_

 _Did that ever stop me before?"_

"No, but…

You went away…"

 _"_ _Yes, I went away…_

 _But did you think I was truly away, all this time?"_

"…No.

You were the only melody I could hear

In the Silence.

But I…hurt you…

Lily, I…hurt **everyone** …"

 _"_ _But I see you…_

 _Oh, Sev, I always see you._

 _Always now._

 _And no matter how you were shadowed,_

 _You were never altogether lost_

 _For no mortal being_

 _May see this fire_

 _That loses himself to anything_

 _But Love."_

"Lily?"

 _"_ _Yes?"_

"Is there such a thing as touch here?

The last time I held nothing but a shell…

Though I knew you were there, somewhere…

Yet I feel you now, oh, close, close-knit…"

 _"_ _Nothing good is lost here,_

 _No sense taken away, only transfigured."_

"What in us is holding on to the other?

Is it a knot looped 'round like a dance?

Is it like the breath that failed me?

Because…it wounds me…

But I keep wanting it…to wound me…"

 _"_ _No, it is not the breath which failed you…_

 _It is the one that is never snuffed out,_

 _And it wounds only to heal."_

"I am holding you, and you holding me…

We are alone, yet not alone…"

 _"_ _No, never alone."_

"The color I see…does it bring us full circle?"

 _"_ _Yes, it is the Circle_

 _With no beginning, and never ending."_

"Lily?"

 _"_ _Yes?"_

"Is it the color of our love?"

 _"_ _Ours, and all others like it…_

 _They all flow together, like a river…_

 _Like a rainbow."_

"Will we always be here?

Oh, Lily, tell me…"

 _"_ _Oh, Severus…dear Sevy…_

 _The wars are over_

 _This_ _ **is**_ _Always."_


End file.
